Shattered
by CaptainKase
Summary: For a moment, the two images had meshed with one another, and Alphonse was his child and his child was Alphonse, and wasn’t that the way it had always been anyway?
1. Guilty

Just something I wrote in about 10 minutes while I was putting off my English homework.

Antigone is a pain in the butt. D:

Anyhoo, not really sure where it came from, but I think it's alright. I think it was because I realized I hadn't put Al as a main character into any of my stories, and I felt guilty. Al doesn't get enough love. : D Tell me what you think?

Disclaimer: Don't own it. D:

* * *

Sometimes, laying awake at night, staring wide-eyed at the cream-colored ceiling, and feeling the downy-soft cotton of clean bed sheets beneath him, Al started to feel guilty.

He knew that he shouldn't, because Nii-san had told him not too, and he was supposed to do what Nii-san said – that was what little brothers were for, after all. But it was hard. It was hard to listen to the harsh breathing from the bed across the room that cut through the silence that the midnight hour brought. It was hard not to think about his brother lying hurt, in pain, a few steps away. It was hard not to recall the intense sorrow his brother's eyes had held when he had pleaded, begged to be forgiven after Al, who, in his new, shaky, weak body, had needed to carry his heavily bleeding, extremely exhausted, and half-dead brother to the Rockbell's after losing his only recently restored limbs for the second time in his life. And it became harder every day, because Nii-san shouldn't be suffering anymore, and Nii-san shouldn't feel like he needed to be punished anymore.

Al wanted to tell him that, so very badly – wanted his brother to know that he didn't mind how much money the automail was going to cost, because Ed _needed _it and Ed _deserved _it, because it made him happy, and Al _wanted _Ed's happiness more than anything.

In the mornings, when they began poking through the nerves in Ed's arm and leg, Al felt guilty again, because Nii-san was in pain. He was in pain for the sake of Al, like he had been for the past four years. He was guilty because Ed had to smile fiercely through tears so that his little brother _wouldn't_ be guilty anymore. He was guilty because the real hand that found its way to his own when Nii-san relaxed after a particularly painful treatment was always cold, and the encouraging squeeze that he gave was always weaker than it should have been.

And it shouldn't have been so _difficult_ seeing him flinch and give out a muffled scream when the nerves attached for the first time, because he had seen it before, and back then it didn't make much of a difference, anyway. But, back then, things were different. Back then, Al had been suffering for their sins, as well. Back then, he couldn't understand how painful it really was every time the arm entered its port, because he couldn't understand pain. But now he knew, now he remembered different degrees of pain – scraping his knee, stubbing his toe, slamming his fingers in the door, getting hit in the head with a wrench...having automail attached. Winry had explained it to him one day, not long after Nii-san's surgery began–and he had been horrified.

"It's like this," she had said, and pinched him – hard – on the new, tender skin on his forearm, "only about a thousand times more intense, and two thousand times as long." Al had yelped, and watched the small section of skin on his arm become white, then red, then fade to the soft tan he had developed when he went outside to fetch flowers for Nii-san every morning, with a growing sense of dread. And that night, the only smile he could muster when Nii-san yelled at Winry for pinching his little brother was a small one, because he knew how much the wires sticking out of his brother's shoulder must have hurt.

His brother hadn't stood on two legs, not yet. He was still bedridden with a fever and needed to be fed and carried by the other members of the Rockbell household, needed to be taken care of by everyone around him. And again, Alphonse was infuriated with himself, because Ed was infuriated with _himself_ for being so "useless," for being a "burden." Al wanted to tell him that he was _stupid, _andthat he wasn't a burden – that it was good to let other people take care of things once in a while. But he knew that Nii-san would never listen, he was too stubborn.

He knew, because every time Al had tried to tell Edward that he was guilty, that he really didn't want this body if it meant Edward had to look so _hurt _all the time, Edward did his best to clear the pain from his eyes, to wipe his face clean of every emotion but happiness, and would say, "Don't say things like that Al. You know that I'm happy if you are. Please don't feel guilty." And then Nii-san would smile, but there was always something rueful about the way he did it, and Alphonse would smile back, satisfied with the answer until he realized that in asking his brother what he just had, he had only made Nii-san feel more miserable, because now he had Al's guilt on top of everything else to blame himself for. So Alphonse kept these feelings to himself as his new body grew stronger, and Ed's grew weaker after day upon day of pain and suffering.

"Al?" Ed's voice was thick, slurred with sleep and drugs.

"Yes Nii-san? Do you need something?" Al sat up, and tried to clear the guilty thoughts from his mind so that he could smile properly, but it didn't work, because he soon began to feel guilty for waking his brother from his much-needed sleep.

Ed turned his head, weakly, to face his brother's, and smiled, "No. I was jus' makin' sure you were still there." Al blinked, surprised.

"Making sure I was still here?" He nodded tiredly, and yawned a catlike yawn.

"'S good...to have you here. Dunno what 'd do if..." He stopped, and put his only working arm between the pillow and his warm forehead. "Y'know."

"I know Nii-san."

"Go back to bed, Al. An' stop thinkin' so mush."

"Of course Nii-san," and he laid back down.

Al didn't think that Ed was aware of what Ed said next, because Nii-san didn't usually express things with words like this. "Love you."

Whether he had intended to say it or not, it made Al feel good, and after he replied, he didn't feel quite so guilty anymore, because it reminded him that Nii-san had told him not too, and he was supposed to do what Nii-san said – that was what little brothers were for, after all.

"Love you, too."

* * *

Yeah. I went Italics CRAZY. Wanna fight about it? XD


	2. Shattered

I was suddenly inspired to write upon seeing that I had more reviews. Whoa ho ho. Totally awesome. (The Cap'n luffs reviews more life itself. O.O It gives me something to look forward to after seven hours at school.) So here's a one-shot for you. Expect more. :D

Author's Notes:

I've decided to make this into a series of one-shots. Why? Because I happen to like one-shots, and it seems that's all I have time to write lately. (AP Classes are NOT FUN. D:) Also, I don't want to make a new story thingie for every single one-shot I write. So I'll just add on to this one. Look for more, right here, coming soon.

I'm changing the name of this fic to better reflect this one-shot, but I don't think I'll change the name again. Shattered is probably going to be fitting anyway, because most of what I write is PURE EDO ANGST. :sigh: I luff Edo angst. I'll change the summary for every one-shot though.

**WARNING: There be spoilers for episode 51 ahead. Yar.**

Enjoy!

* * *

There was something fundamentally _wrong_ in the look that his son was giving him. He couldn't quite interpret it, because he had never been good with emotions, and he didn't imagine he ever would be, but he knew that there was _hurt _in that gaze that penetrated so many levels of the young man's soul, and he knew that he simply couldn't let his son's suffering go falsely unnoticed any longer. He had noticed. He had seen that look too many times, and had not done anything about it. Hohenheim decided then, with a firm unwavering resolve, that he would drop the emotionless shield that he had erected around himself years ago to protect himself from the relentless cruelty of the world. Edward needed someone right now. Desperately.

Hohenheim had never been good with emotions, and he didn't imagine he ever would be, but he took the quivering boy in his arms nonetheless, just like he had before the boy – his boy – had been to hell and back again, before he had seen the horrors of death and tasted the bitterness of fresh blood.

He could faintly hear the sirens blaring from somewhere in the streets and could hardly see the harsh lines of his son's face through the thin film of smoke drifting in through the cracked window. Outside, conditions were getting worse.

"Edward," he soothed, his voice barely audible through the warmth of Ed's shoulder. "We need to evacuate London. It's not safe here. Please, just cooperate with me." Now he was pleading, and as much as he hated to sound desperate around his already vulnerable son, they _needed _to leave for Munich. He simply couldn't grant Edward any more time to recover.

A pained sob caught in Edward's throat, and Hohenheim pulled him closer. It was a reflection of his son's weakened state that he didn't wrench away from his father's embrace as he had so many times before. But, Edward reflected, everything _hurt _more on this side of the gate, and the empty sockets of his right arm and left leg had never seemed so crippling as they did now. Now, they weren't gleaming with metal, rather, they were shining through the darkness with fresh, dull, red blood – more dull, Edward noted, than it would have been on his side of the gate, like everything in this strange world – and they pained him every waking moment of his new life. He opted for the less painful alternative, and let his father comfort him. The warmth felt good on his aching joints anyway.

"Please, Edward. I _know _you're still sick, and I know you're still in pain, but I need you to work with me if you want to live to see your brother again. Isn't that what you want?" Edward's next intake of breath burned in his chest, and the lump he attempted to swallow stuck in his throat, making it impossible to retaliate even if he had wanted to. No. He simply didn't have the strength anymore; that was what he really wanted, after all. Instead, he whimpered pathetically and earned a sympathetic expression in response.

Hohenheim untangled himself from his son's unresponsive form and made his way across the room to the small closet they now shared. He pulled from it a dirty old coat, musty and smelling of old mothballs, before making his way back to Edward's bed.

"You're not helping me, Edward." Ever the stubborn one, Edward slumped against the headboard as the old man approached him with the unwanted article of clothing, the action punctuated by the shrill cry of an explosive hurtling toward Earth, and then an explosion somewhere on the outskirts of the city. They were coming closer. Hohenheim tried again to wrestle his son into the musty old coat, but was met by more of the same infuriatingly unresponsive behavior. "Edward! If you don't put on the coat, you'll be sick again! I'm going to carry you out of this apartment with or without it! What's it going to be?"

Carry him? The very idea! The sheer indignity was mind-numbingly repulsive. Edward Elric would not be _carried _anywhere.

"No..." His voice wavered, and his vocal cords screamed in protest of every word. It had been weeks since he'd last spoken, and that was only to tell his bastard father that he wanted _out _of the goddamn hospital. "I need time. Gimme more _time_." A look of surprise flashed across his father's face due to Edward's suddenly alert behavior.

"Edward..." And he tried to smother his son in another embrace.

"No, godammit!" One arm, trembling, weak, pale, and thin, desperately shoved Hohenheim back. It had little effect, but Hohenheim knew when he needed to back down and give the too-small boy some breathing room. He hovered silently at the end of the bed for a moment, watching Edward pant with exertion from the seemingly small effort.

"Edward. You're missing a leg. You can't very well walk out yourself." He stated bluntly. The remark ripped through Ed, and he looked down at the collapse in the bed sheets where the leg Alphonse has given up his very _life _for _should _have been. It wasn't, and he had known it wouldn't be, but it still set his heart afire to see it for himself _again_, to think back to the painful day where he had lost everything _again, _and break into shuddering sobs _again_ so near to the man he hated most.

Edward let the coat fall onto his shoulders this time. The warmth was welcoming, and the collar hid his swollen red eyes – for the most part. The fact that Edward was positively swimming in the jacket put the already worried father in near hysterics. Edward shouldn't be so thin, he shouldn't be so small, and he shouldn't be crying. Hell, if he was going to get into specifics here, Edward shouldn't be on this side of the gate, and he himself shouldn't be a goddamn father; he just wasn't cut out for this kind of thing. But that was just the way things worked out sometimes. Who was he to challenge God?

_Well...bad question._

Hohenheim had already challenged God too many times in his lengthy life, and he didn't need this on his record as well.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't doomed to the deepest circle of hell just yet.

Hohenheim then scooped his son into his arms, heavy quilt and all. He was tediously careful of the vacant arm and leg stump on either side of the prone form, and moved slowly through the small room and into the shabby, dim living room of his...no...**their** run-down apartment.

"Do you need a hat, Edward?" The boy scowled and shook his head as vigorously as he was able while being gently placed on the living room sofa. "I'll get you one anyway. Just in case." Another boom from the war raging outside shook the apartment and sent a fragile dinner plate tumbling from its tedious perch atop a counter to shatter on the linoleum floor below.

"I...I'll get your shoes." Hohenheim briskly strode from the room.

"There's only one goddamn shoe, bastard." Edward mumbled halfheartedly as he watched his father's retreating form.

He listened to the shuffling from the other room, the muffled cursing, and eventually, the call of triumph when Hohenheim found what he had been looking for in the tangled mess that was Edward's drawers. (His father had bought out every clothing store in the city in the past three weeks. He insisted that he wanted Edward to be prepared for the winter. Edward knew the truth though. That bastard was trying to make up for lost time, or to repent, or gain Ed's favor...or...something. Whatever the hell it was, it didn't work.) He turned his gaze to the broken fragments of the fine china instead, and reflected sadly that they had broken his favorite plate. If he had his arm and leg again...

He was broken out of his reverie as his sole foot was jammed into an uncomfortable boot and laced up unnecessarily tightly. He opened his mouth to tell that asshole to shove off, but only a cough escaped him, and before long, he was doubled over, tears in his eyes, all his remaining energy devoted to trying to make the dry, painful cough stop. A glass of water was forced to his lips just as a hat was forced onto his head. He drank deeply, and once he was through, shoved the glass out of the old man's hand and onto the floor where it joined the broken plate in a shattered heap.

"Do you mind?" Hohenheim smiled tiredly down at him. "I wa–" There was a rough, calloused hand over his mouth before he got the thought out.

"Shh...Edward, do you hear that?" He didn't hear anything. And that was the disturbing part. He didn't hear _anything. _A thick silence had settled over the war-torn city, and it was unsettling, to say the very least.

"Yeah..."

"We need to leave." Edward nodded distractedly and looked again at the broken dishes on the floor.

_Shattered..._

Hohenheim gathered his too-light son into his own strong arms again, and left the quaint

apartment that had been his son's home away from home, his only comfort for the past month, without ever looking back.

They were later seen, a father with a broken son to his chest, making their way slowly through the rubble that lined the once-bustling streets of London. That night, Edward's home was burned to the ground for the second time in his life – only this time, he simply didn't have the energy to care.

* * *

...Well! I know there really wasn't much point to it, but I really like Hoho-papa. He makes me happy because he has just about the coolest character design in an anime EVER. And Edo with Paternal!Hoho-papa just makes me...well...REALLY HAPPY. Anyone read any good ones lately? Point me in the right direction. :D Thanks for reading, and please review. Tell me about my writing...because I'm concerned about that more than anything else. I think it's improving, but I might be a bit biased. ;D 


	3. Warning

Huh. I was in a weird mood this weekend... "weird" as in, couldn't-write-anything-long mood. Which is weird for me. Because everything I write is UBER long. But I hate posting short things, so I combined three little story thingies...drabbles? Naw...too long...I don't know. But altogether, they add up to exactly 1000 words. How did that happen? Psh. Like I know. But it's pretty cool, huh? If you guys want me to continue any of them, please ask, and I promise I will. I know they have pretty abrupt ends.

Number One

Can you believe this first one actually started out being FUNNY? (It was going to be a present for my good buddy Fitchy, who drew me art for _Coffee, _but I guess she'll have to wait another week.)Yeah...I know...pretty sad that it's impossible for me to write anything but angst. D: I actually think that funny story will show up. But I just couldn't do it yesterday. I actually don't like this one very much, because it makes me hate Roy every time I read it...and I think it may be out of character? I don't know. My writing abilities sucked it up this weekend.

Number Two

Mmmm...Ross. I was going to make it Edwin...because someone asked for Edwin...but I HATE Edwin. SOMUCH. So here's Ross.

Number Three

...I was getting desperate?

Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Because I hate them. **Please, if you want to see something MAKE A REQUEST in your review.** I love taking requests, and I most definitely will complete it. (Thanksgiving break is coming up. :D)

Don't own it.

No spoilers.

Have fun.

* * *

It was around noon when a flurry of red clothing and white gloves stormed in his doorway. Not that he hadn't expected it – he had. The last mission the boy had been sent on was positively _ludicrous_. Roy knew it.

He sent Ed anyway.

But he didn't need this today – not now. He was moody and depressed, and he had a five o'clock appointment with his grandfather's best brandy. There would be no fun in watching Edward storm and rage about his office when he felt like this.

"– Goddamn GOAT took off about half my...ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?"

Roy sighed and put a hand over his eyes, rubbing tiredly at the bridge of his nose. "I hear you quite clearly, Fullmetal. And quite honestly, you are giving me a headache." The boy snorted in laughter and slumped onto the sofa, purposely rubbing his muddy boots into the white upholstery and yawning theatrically as he did so.

"'Bout fucking time someone did. Can't say you don't deserve it after sending me to inspect goddamn Farmer Brown. Chickens the size of – Colonel? Hey...are you okay?" Roy's eyes glazed as he stared wistfully at an ink stain adorning his desk. He missed the relatively concerned (as concerned as would come from Edward anyway) tone to Edward's voice, lost in contemplation. Which was a shame, because Edward didn't give much sympathy.

"Edward, please leave your report with Hawkeye. I'll see you tomorrow." Edward's expression was utterly dumbfounded.

"Come on Colonel...what the hell is up with you today?" Roy glowered in his direction, eyes slanted, dark circles tracing the lines in his face he had seemingly developed overnight.

"Since when is it your place to pry into my personal life, Fullmetal? Go live your own hellish life, and stop interfering in mine." Edward's face looked childish again, transformed into something young and naive by Roy's harsh words.

"My mother always said – " he started – the thought was never completed.

"Your goddamn mother is dead," Roy snarled back, with such ferocity that he could actually see Edward shrinking into himself in response, expression suddenly a mixture of horror and sorrow. Before Roy even realized the impact of what he had said, there were tears gathering in the corners of Ed's golden eyes and spilling in little rivers down his cheeks.

"Edward, I..." But it was too late. In the same flurry of gold, red, and white that he had entered, he was gone.

"Damnit..." Roy was early to his appointment that evening.

* * *

"I didn't even know his name," he sobbed into her shoulder, small frame shuddering miserably with each intake of breath. There was blood on his automail hand and it warmed the cold metal, giving Maria the illusion of a flesh hand. A real hand.

She shushed him, rubbed his back, and cooed in his ear. There, there. She vaguely remembered mumbling. It'll be alright, Ed.

It wouldn't be alright. It would never be alright.

"I killed him." She flinched.

"I know you did, Ed."

"His daughter...she was right there..."

"I know."

"And what goddamn reason did I have?"

"You had a good reason, Ed," she whispered as she tenderly played with his saturated golden hair.

He continued at if he hadn't heard, voice becoming thicker with emotion after every word. "No goddamn reason." Ross disagreed. Defending yourself when there was a gun to your head was reason enough. Edward's living, breathing body was reason enough. It was wrong to say so – she knew – but it didn't matter to her that this man was lying face down in a puddle of his own blood as long as Edward was warm and alive in her arms.

"Don't talk like that." With another violent lurch, he began shivering. A second quiet hushing noise. "Don't talk like that." She pulled him closer and felt his heart pounding wildly against her chest. "Would you rather it was you?"

"Yes..." he sighed, eyelids pressed firmly together in a futile attempt to push the world away.

"Oh? Well I'm sure Al wouldn't." Looking up from her precious charge for the first time since he had fallen into her embrace, she eyed the suit of armor standing feet away. It's massive hands were fidgeting anxiously, feet shuffling nervously, sorry excuse for eyes glancing helplessly from side to side. Al had tried to comfort his brother already. It hadn't worked. _Help him! Please? I...I can't seem to get through to him. _"Get up, Ed." He stood obediently. Blood trickled from his arm and cloak, and his eyes follow its graceful path from his body to the ground.

"I didn't even know his name."

"I know, Edward. I know."

* * *

"Hey boss, you just going to sit there all day?" He eyed Edward suspiciously.

"Yes." Rolling his eyes,Havoc made his way over to sit next to the boy on the steps.

"What's up this time, boss?" Edward simply looked dreamily at the dark sky, which was threatening impending rain.

"I was just thinking. Nothing's wrong." It was odd, to say the least – the dreamy, faraway look on his face – but Havoc shrugged it off, and considered it an excuse to have his last cigarette on the steps to headquarters. Out came the cigarettes, the matches and then the – Edward glanced over, and his expression darkened.

"Hey, Lieutenant..." The cigarette could wait a second longer...

"Yeah, boss?"

"Don't you ever want to quit smoking?" Blinking, Havoc looked back at the cigarette in his hand. Quit smoking? He hadn't really thought...

"I...I don't...I don't think so...Why?" Perplexed, he glanced down at Edward only to see the boy snatch the cigarette from his open hand and violently smash it into the steps. _That was my last one!_

"It's going to kill you, someday."

"Wha...what?"

"You should listen to those that care about you– "

"The hell..."

"If they give you a warning." And with that, Edward stood and walked slowly up the steps, leaving a dumbfounded Havoc gaping at him from below.

* * *

Yes. Craptacular. I do apologize, but would you leave a review, please? I love reviews so very much.

Ah yes! A Great big thank you to all my reviewers. I would respond to all of you, but I'm not allowed. D:::Luff:


	4. Need

**This chapter's content has been edited and improved as of 7/23/06. :3**

* * *

:D NEW CHAPTER! Hoorah! Why hoorah? Because the last one stunk, and I REALLY like this one. I think it's pretty good.

But first, a warning.

Me: It is in the nature of science that I write this fanfiction, in order to experiment with –

Al: Nii-san... -reads- SHE KILLED ME!

Me: -coughahemcough- As I was saying, it is in the nature of science, Alphonse.

Al: -puppy eyes- You _killed_ me.

Me: GODAMMIT! DON'T MAKE ME FEEL WORSE THAN I ALREADY DO!

Al: -quivering lip- What did I ever do to you!

Me: It's a scientific venture. I kill you, and in exchange, I get Edward angst! See! Equivalent exchange! -weak laugh-

Ed: -reads- WHAT THE HELL?

Me: O.O EEEP! -PWNZ0RD-

Ahem...anyway...yeah, I killed him. But I do feel REALLY bad about it. I mean like...seriously SUPER BAD. I luff Alphonse. But every FMA fic writer has to kill him at least once in the name of Edo angst...and well...I just...did...-weeps-

Anyway, I did it because I hate those yaoi fics where SUDDENLY right after Alphonse is gone...well...it goes something like this:

Ed: So...Alphonse is dead. That kinda sucks. -sniff-

Roy: Yup.

Ed: Yup. Kinda liked him.

Roy: Yeah, me too.

Ed: ...

Roy: ...

Ed: Wanna have sex on his grave?

Roy: Sure!

Because not only do I hate yaoi (sorry all you yaoi and yuri fans, but I can't STAND the stuff) but I love Alphonse to PIECES and I know that Edward would be absolutely DEVASTATED were he ever to lose him. I'm also sure that, in the wake of such a tragedy, he wouldn't have the time or energy to reconsider his sexual orientation. Sorry. But those fics piss me off more than words can say.

On that note, here's a story for you!

Disclaimer: Don't own it. D:

Enjoy!

* * *

Alphonse was exactly the way the Roy had imagined him, the very embodiment of a voice that had been without proper representation for far too long. The brief smile had been Ed's – wide, grateful, accepting – filled with so much hurt and unconditional trust that it made Roy's heart _ache_. He was lean, less muscular than Edward though, which was to be expected. His face was more round and less harsh; there were no hard lines or scars to mar his perfect, new skin. The eyes, flickered open in a brief moment of life, had been a sort of olive, not the harsh, unforgiving gold like his brother's, but instead deep, pensive, and warm. The most alarming thing, however, was the fact that the voice was the same. It was exactly the same voice that had echoed from the depths of a walking sin for four years of endless effort. And now, they would never hear it again. Because, in so many words, Edward had failed.

Roy would never put it that way to Edward's face – never so bluntly. It was apparent that the boy was in enough pain already. Bone-deep, mind-numbing pain that left him unresponsive and hysterical, clutching weakly at the still form in his arms and sobbing loudly into a chest that was without the steady rise and fall of life-giving breath. The olive eyes were open, but glazed, mouth still parted from a first and final shuddering breath. Edward silently, mournfully called his name time and time again, chanting a morose requiem for the boy resting in his arms.

Because it didn't _work_. It should have. Edward should have been crying in the sheer euphoria of an overdue reunion, and his brother should have been hugging him back, remembering how to use muscles that had been long since forgotten and recalling exactly how to make tears flow down his cheeks in ecstasy as they hadn't in years. But not _this._

Edward cautiously lifted his head from the bare chest long enough to unbutton his jacket and place it on the shoulders of his younger brother, who's brand new body – Ed's own design and creation – was beginning to stiffen in the starts of rigor mortis. He planted a light kiss on the forehead, and finding it ice cold, burst into a renewed fit of maddening sorrow. Sobbing into Alphonse's silky bronze hair and choking as if in pain, he continued to stroke the face and hands, marveling at his own craftsmanship and scouring every inch of the unscathed skin for an area that would tell him his fatal mistake.

But lingering here wasn't doing either of them any good. Roy decided to make the first move and slowly walked to the front of the curious crowd of military personnel. He gently placed a hand on Edward's shoulder, began his shaky apology, but stopped abruptly when Edward recoiled as if had been burnt, turning on Roy like a caged animal and clutching Alphonse's body defensively close. Complete exhaustion was obvious in every line on his face and every twitch of his weakened body. The unsuccessful transmutation had completely tapped what little energy reserves he had, and he had used the last of his strength to make a shell that refused to accept the soul forced into it. Roy again started toward him, but raw fear played its way across his features, and he only pulled Alphonse closer. It took all of Roy's strength and training to hold back the tears burning at the corners of his eyes. But he couldn't cry. He needed to be strong for the both of them.

"Edward, you need to let him go," Roy reminded him gently. Edward simply shook his head weakly in response, panting from the seemingly exhausting effort of dragging the empty shell of a little boy halfway across the basement room. And then again, more firm this time, "Let him go." Several soldiers that had been flanking Roy moved in to remove the doll from Edward's lap, but he only let out a loud gurgle of disgust and repositioned himself against the wall. The soldier's backed away as Roy snapped off the command relieving them from duty, seeing that he was causing distress, and at Edward's silent prompt, Roy moved forward, tentatively placing one foot in front of the other until he reached Edward's side.

"Edward, are you willing to – "

"It _hurts_." He insisted in an urgent whisper.

"Uh..." Roy puzzled over the unexpected statement for a moment.

"He's not coming back this time, is he Colonel?" An unreadable emotion flickered across Ed's face. It might've been the hope that had driven him for five years of pain, and it might've been fear of the answer that awaited him, but regardless of what it was – it scared Roy out of his wits. No man should have to wear that expression. There was far too much pain in those eyes.

"No."

"But there has to be a way! My arm! Take my other! Please, God or knowledge or whoever the hell you are! Take my other arm!" A desperate cry tore from his throat, and he frantically began tearing at his shoulder with the unforgiving metal of an automail hand as if ripping his arm from its socket would miraculously bring his brother's soul back to the body they had sought for so long. Roy could only thank the _stars_ that Ed had been too distraught to transmute a blade from his automail.

"Stop it, godammit!" Taking Ed's automail arm with his own and holding tight, Roy explained as simply as he possibly could, "You know what happened. The shell rejected the soul, Ed. Alphonse is gone." For a moment, it looked as if Ed wanted to rip Roy limb from limb, as if he wanted to tear out those cold, obsidian eyes; but then, his bottom lip trembled piteously and he bowed his head, stubbornly refusing to converse with the man who had decimated his only hopes in a short string of sentences.

It took every ounce of Roy's willpower to maintain his emotionless mask as the soldiers forcefully removed Alphonse's body from trembling, unrelenting, grasping hands. The jacket, Edward's final gift to his beloved little brother, was abandoned, revealing the full extent of Ed's craftsmanship, attention to detail, _love _and _care _that he had poured into every beautiful inch of skin. He sobbed miserably as they pried his hand from his brother's – he had died like that, hand in hand with his older sibling – shoulders shaking with violent, convulsive weeping. He groped desperately for the body after it left his lap, watched with wide, horrified eyes as they packed his little brother neatly into a large black bag, but was too weak to stand on his own to do anything about it.

Shouting his brother's name, he attempted to regain his feet, but promptly fell hard on his stomach and remained there, breathing heavily. Roy approached him warily, falling to his knees when he reached his side and gathering him into his arms. Edward only blinked sleepily, tears flowing freely down his cheeks, and faded into an exhausted half-sleep, somewhere between peaceful slumber and wakefulness. It was a moment before the thick silence that seemed to envelop the two, despite the loud chattering and rude gossip that surrounded them, was broken.

"Is Havoc here, today?"

"Yessir."

"Have him bring the car around."

"But sir, they'll want Major Elric for questioning. Wasn't that a human trans– "

"Bring the goddamn car around!"

"Yessir." And he left, leaving Roy to gather the fallen boy into his arms, part the frenzying crowds with several crisp, commanding threats, and wonder what exactly Edward had done wrong.

* * *

He slept for a straight three days, mumbling in his sleep and furrowing his brow. Roy was, through much debate, kind enough to donate his bed, and it was worth it – if only to see Edward with a contented, peaceful expression in the blessed moments before he regained consciousness.

On the first day, the knocks on the door came the moment he settled Edward beneath the heavy bed quilt. First came the military police, demanding to speak with the boy, then Lieutenants and Lieutenant-Colonels demanding to know exactly what happened. He repeatedly slammed the door, although careful not to be too loud, and dreaded the inevitable day when a General would come knocking, and he would have no choice but to allow the higher ranked officer inside. But for now, there wasn't enough interest in the subject. Not many people _understood_ what a miracle Edward had performed. But they would. And then there would be _hell_.

The first man who Roy actually allowed inside was Maes, who smiled a melancholy smile and asked gently to see Edward. Roy opened the door wide, and sluggishly lead him to the bedroom where the boy lay nestled snugly between Roy's soft bed sheets.

"What are you going to do...when he wakes up?" Maes had asked quietly, dragging his fingers through Ed's silky hair and gazing serenely at the shallow trails they left in the thick layers of gold. "It's going to be hard."

"I don't know." And he didn't. Edward would be devastated.

"Gracia and I can take him. It might be better if he were around a mother...and a sibling." But Roy understood the underlying message of _"I don't think you're any kind of father."_

"I think it would be best," Roy contradicted haughtily, "If he weren't. It would only remind him of everything he's lost." Maes nodded distractedly, looked for a moment as if he were about to cry, and then left, promising Roy that Ed would be eating Gracia's apple pie the moment he awoke. Roy nodded tiredly and closed the door behind him, wondering when exactly, he, Roy Mustang, had come to be so over-protective.

Roy really had no idea how the news got around so quickly – had no idea why news like this was important enough to make the headlines of every paper from Central to Dublith. But regardless of the reason, it had, and when they saw the photograph of Edward on the center of the front page, crying and clutching his little brother's hand, hearts everywhere went out to him, and the mobs began arriving on Roy's doorstep by the second day. There were masses of people that Edward had helped come to wish him well – a burly mining man from Youswell who put a pickax through Roy's door when he denied his entry, a pair of brothers bearing a lemon pie with "Get well soon!" written on the top in sloppy, white icing, and a pretty young woman who claimed that she should be allowed inside because she had had a love affair with the famous Edward Elric in Aquroya. Roy almost (_almost_) cracked a smile at the final woman, because he knew quite well that Edward had never been in love with anything but his alchemy texts and his little brother.

On the third day, Edward woke up. Roy was in the room at the time, setting a vase of flowers from a little girl in Drachma that Edward had pulled from a river on the bedside table. He had seen the look of confusion pass over his face, the caution that flooded his eyes, and he saw it replaced just as quickly by the same heart-wrenching sorrow.

"Hey," was all that Roy could muster by way of a greeting through the sudden tightness in his throat. "How are you feeling?" He didn't respond, just turned over and curled into a tight little ball before his body was wracked with silent sobs. "Edward..." Positioning himself on the side of the bed, he reached over to touch Edward on the back only to be met with...nothing. Nothing. He didn't pull away, he didn't react indignantly, he didn't even flinch. He just continued to shudder and heave silently, taking no heed to the gentle hand rubbing up and down his spine.

On the fourth day, he tried to get Edward to eat. He was again visited by Hughes, with whom he confided that Edward wouldn't even think about touching any meal that was pushed in his direction. Hell, he wouldn't even speak. He wouldn't even move. It was a wonder that he was even breathing.

Hughes cut about half the pie and ventured into Roy's bedroom with a determined expression. He returned minutes later to find Roy pacing the living room and smiled sadly. "He won't touch it."

"Did he talk to you?" Roy ventured hopefully.

"No. He fell asleep though."

"Oh. That's good." And it was, because he hadn't slept in nearly twenty-four hours, but he needed _food_ right now. Rest could come later.

"Perhaps you need a woman's touch?"

"Perhaps I should just shove it down his throat." There was no heat to the words, just frustration borne of four sleepless nights. Maes contemplated Roy's shabby green sofa-turned-makeshift bed for a moment before clapping him on the back and heading for the door. His parting words were, "The other half of the pie is for you, you know," which reminded Roy that he really ought to eat.

On the fifth day, Ed finally removed himself from Roy's room long enough to use the

bathroom when he was sure his caretaker was face-down and snoring on the couch, but then

sluggishly made his way back to the bedroom and collapsed on top of the sheets, curling into a fetal ball again. Getting under the covers, it seemed, was far too much effort.

It was about an hour after Roy had tried to force feed Edward a bowl of chicken broth that he phoned Hawkeye, because quite honestly, he did indeed need help, or soon Edward was just going to waste away. She had shown up fifteen minutes later, ever the punctual one, with no gun at her waist. Edward was too delicate to be dealt with like that just yet, she figured. Later, she might have to whip it out to get him in line, but now, he needed tact and caring. And he deserved it.

"He's unresponsive. I can't get anything out of him and I can't get a bite into him." She only nodded, entered the room with a tray of various foodstuffs, and returned two hours later with remains of a half-eaten lunch and a tear-stained face.

Roy didn't get any sleep that night. The retching from the other room was enough to keep all of Central awake.

On the sixth day Edward was ill. Roy's silky red bed sheets were stained with vomit and bile, and he coaxed Edward onto the couch before the doctor arrived. The doctor informed Roy that it was dehydration and went on his merry way, joking jovially that the weather would be awful the next day as he shoved a bottle of pills into Roy's hand and requested that Ed drink more fluids.

And it_ was_ awful. The first snow always did come on Edward's birthday, after all. And that day, the seventh day, the day marking Edward's birth sixteen years prior, would be the most memorable, because Edward finally remembered his voice in the throes of a sickness he brought upon himself.

"Good morning, Ed. I made you oatmeal. It shouldn't be too hard on your stomach. But I–"

"Stop it." Edward interrupted, voice scratchy, weak, and thick with tears. "Just leave. I know...I know you don't want to...to help me. No one should." The soft glow of the bedside lamp caught the glimmer of a tear on his cheek before he rolled over and sniffled miserably.

"Edward, that's not true." Roy set the oatmeal bowl aside and prepared himself for what was sure to be a tiring argument. "No one thinks that. Everyone wants to help you, Ed – it's you who won't let us."

"I'm only trying to protect you," he muttered weakly, turning his pillow over to press his burning face into the cool side.

"...What?"

"I've already killed my whole family. I don't want to hurt you too." The statement sent two realizations rushing forth. The first was that Edward was blaming himself not only for Alphonse's death but for his mother's too, shouldering the guilt day after endless day. The second was that Edward was alone. _Alone_. Utterly alone at the tender age of sixteen. At sixteen, Roy had been worrying about who he would take out on Saturday night, not what he would have engraved on his little brother's headstone.

"Edward! Don't _say_ things like that!" He sat on the bed and, taking the boy by the chin, forcefully met Edward's eyes with his own. "What would your mother think? What would your _brother _think?" Roy hissed.

"That doesn't matter." Edward lackadaisically slapped Roy's hand away and settled into the pillow again. "I killed them. They aren't here anymore."

"Of course it does." Edward didn't respond. "You didn't kill them, Edward!"

"Well then who did?" The question had obviously been on his mind for some time.

"No one! Sometimes, things just happen, Ed." Roy surprised himself by how confident he sounded as he denied every belief that he had held dear for the last fifteen years.

"But I didn't...I didn't get anything in return."

"What?"

"Equivalent exchange. I didn't get _anything_ for the past four years!"

"The world isn't a chemical equation," came the gentle response.

A pause, and then, "I wish it was."

Roy sighed and picked up the oatmeal bowl again, dipping the spoon into the thick, sweet

substance as he pretended not to notice sobs that had begun anew. Finally, "Me too."

"I'm sorry." Roy was again taken aback by how very blunt Edward was being.

"What?"

"I...I miss him." It struck a nerve in Roy's heart.

"I know. I miss him too."

"I just...I just...I just _wish_ I could've been better. Then maybe...maybe I could've saved him." He dragged a flesh arm across his eyes, wiping away the tears before more replaced them.

"There was nothing you could have done, Edward. You tried as hard as you could, and Alphonse knows that, and he would never hold it against you," Roy chastised firmly, and a warm breeze wafted in through the open window, caressed Edward's face, as if to punctuate his words – agree and reassure.

Edward seemed to contemplate that for a moment before turning stubbornly away from Roy again and adding, "But I want him _back_."

Roy wouldn't remember how long he sat and watched Edward cry himself to sleep, longing to comfort him; all that he knew was that when he finally did leave, taking the previously scalding bowl of oatmeal with him, it was ice cold.

* * *

The next three weeks passed in a flurry of funeral arrangements, doctor visits, train rides, and interrogations. Ed continued to starve himself and Roy continued to will him to get better. More gifts came, along with more visitors, but Ed simply refused to take heed to anything happening around him.

Somewhere between Alphonse's funeral and Edward's birthday, a Brigadier-General arrived at Roy's door, and demanded to see the alchemist – demanded to know how exactly he created a living, breathing body.

Roy promptly slammed the door in his face, surprising himself even as he activated the deadbolt. But the insensitivity that the man had displayed was inexcusable, Roy tried to justify the situation, how could any man refer to loving, caring Alphonse as "the body" and his poor, tortured brother as "the alchemist?" There was too much that he didn't know. Too much that he would never be able to understand. And it shouldn't have been such an outrage to Roy, he knew. He shouldn't have seen it as such a blatant display of disrespect and ignorance; the man was just doing his job after all, and Roy knew how hard it was to balance one's own emotions with the emotions that the military wanted you to have better than anyone else. But dammit, Edward deserved _better_.

Roy received a slap on the wrist – nothing more, nothing less. He had, after all, been promoted when he discovered the results of a successful human transmutation.

It had been a challenge – keeping Al's body away from the medical laboratories. But Roy had a way of vehemently demanding that his voice be heard as well as a staff of five brilliant, faithful subordinates to intimidate, connive, and challenge the power of the higher-ups. Five subordinates who, given the choice, would have gladly exchanged their military position to see that the body Edward had worked so hard for was laid to rest where he belonged.

Alphonse was buried near his mother at Edward's request. The boy spoke so little anymore, Roy didn't have the heart to refuse him when he actually did, because he knew that if it was important enough to bother Edward, it had to be very important indeed.

_"It would be cruel...to keep them apart." _

So they set out, Edward, a small group of military personnel, and the entire Hughes family – as well as a little pine box lovingly tucked away in the cargo car. It comforted Edward, Roy knew, to have Gracia there stroking his hair on the train ride Rizenbul, even if he never said so, and Roy felt a twinge of jealousy. He had, after all, had to work much harder to earn Edward's trust.

Alphonse's funeral was short, but beautiful. A thin layer of soft, fluttery snow blanketed the frozen earth and left a white outline in the embossing of Trisha and Alphonse Elric's gravestones. There wasn't a priest, because Alphonse had never believed in those kinds of things, anyway. Instead no one said _anything _when the beautifully transmuted box was covered by fresh soil. Because there wasn't anything that needed to be said.

Roy refused the Rockbell's offer, insisted that, no, he could take care of Edward just fine,

and it might be better if he were away from the memories for a while. As Pinako insisted that Edward _would_ be better off in their home as gently as possible, Roy reflected on how much meaning the past four weeks of his life had contained – about how he finally had a reason to get up in the morning, a reason to pour his scotch down the bathroom drain, a reason to care, a person to care for – he adamantly refused. And as he boarded the train to return to Central with the boy in question in tow a week later, Roy couldn't help but think that Edward needed him as much as he needed Edward.

* * *

Reviews for me! Please tell me if you liked it. I worked hard on this one! 


	5. Once

**This chapter's content has been edited and improved as of 7/23/06. :3**

* * *

I'm sorry for the late update! Last week, I had just about the most stressful week known to MAN. My parents left town and left me at a friend's house. A friend who I happened to be in a fight with. A friend who hates FMA. A very, very, very annoying friend. And MAN is it awkward staying at someone else's house. Plus, my teachers were (and still are) overworking me. D: Coming home to 10 reviews in my mailbox was just about the best thing that's happened in weeks. -luff-

I believe that there will be another chapter to Shattered before the week ends, and perhaps I'll begin a chapter story soon. :3

In the meantime, here's this. I don't believe it's terribly good, but it's not terribly _bad _either. Please excuse grammatical errors, because I apologize in advance if your find any.

I haven't seen the movie (JANUARY 25TH! Well, hopefully. According to every single website that I've checked, the only way that I can get the movie with English subs on January 25th is if I buy it in a box set which costs SEVENTY-FIVE DOLLARS! EEP! I do hope that isn't the truth. I can't wait much longer.) So this is kind of a speculation, I suppose. I mean, I know a few things, and this is kind of based off of those few tidbits, but I don't know much. So this isn't by any means accurate.

**Warning: Thar be end-o-series spoilers ahead. Yar.**

Enjoy. :D

* * *

I only met him once.

Well -- in _that_ form.

And I didn't recognize him.

I thought that I would; I always believed that I would know him when I saw him. But I am, however, ashamed to say that I did not.

"Do I know you, son?" I think I said. Son? I must be getting up in years to be calling people son.

He had shifted his feet, uncertain, before gazing up at me. Looking back at it, Edward never would have done something like that either. He tended to be brash, open, unafraid. Heh. That was his downfall, wasn't it? "Well...yes." He had replied, and even then, I still didn't know.

Because, certainly, he sounded similar to a voice from my past. A voice I had thought long gone – but I don't think that I wanted to admit it. Admitting that it was _that _familiar voice would mean that he was still alive – and with him, perhaps his brother.

I had spent the better part of a year trying to cope with their deaths, and I wasn't exactly sure that I could deal with them being _back _again. I think it could be compared to the shock of automail – missing a limb for so long and then, in an instant, having it suddenly just _be _there. It must hurt just as much as having it taken away.

So I simply replied, "Oh?" Even though I knew the answer that would come back in that all too familiar voice.

"My name is Alphonse Elric," And even though I had seen it coming, miles and miles away, the response hit me like a ton of bricks, took my breath away, made me lean against the doorframe of my tiny apartment in shock and stare at him with my only capable eye. "I'm told you knew my brother." _Knew_? That had to mean...

I think I stuttered a moment before allowing him in, and given his response, I think he was used to the startled reaction. He smiled a little sadly and shuffled his feet. I found myself wondering what exactly put that melancholy flicker in his eye as I lead him to a seat among my piles of alchemic research – the only thing I had to occupy my time, nowadays, really. What with the demotion and all.

I excused myself to brew tea, lingering in the kitchen a bit longer than I needed to, before taking a seat with him among the scattered paper and crumpled notes.

Honestly, I wasn't terribly eager to see Alphonse, which made me even more ashamed than I already was. But really, I didn't have any kind of a strong emotional bond to the younger brother. Certainly, I loved the child. It was near impossible not to. But...but I _admired_ his older brother in an entirely different way. I looked up to Edward, even if I looked down at him in reality. And what I wanted to see when I looked at Alphonse was Ed. I wanted it to be _Edward _knocking at my door and demanding entry. Edward always gave me strength.

Did that make me selfish? Quite possibly. But all I had to cling to was a picture of Ed that I kept locked away tight in the confines of my mind – a mental portrait of him slapping my hand and looking up at me – determined as ever in the glare of twilight, even though he knew...even though he _knew _that he was heading away to his death.

And he didn't even have the decency to tell me that he probably wasn't ever coming back.

Damn it all if that one mental picture was enough to satisfy me – because it wasn't. A clawing, grasping void inside of me demanded _more _than that.

But, I was terribly disappointed. The brother's were different, it seems, as night and day. I found myself comparing them, to my shame. Counting the differences and mournfully wishing that I couldn't count the similarities on one hand.

Alphonse smelled faintly of cinnamon and raspberries, I believe. Though I'm not entirely sure (I don't make a habit of smelling such things) but whatever it was, it was a gentle and welcoming aroma.

_He stank of oil – metallic, bitter – and of sweat._

And his face – oh, his face – round and soft and beautiful. Like a child. Like a little boy with baby fat that swooning mothers tended to pinch (I had half a mind to do so myself, to touch the baby softness of Edward's own creation).

_His face was all hard lines and sharp curves. _

His expression was always friendly, always happy – all smiles. He never wore a mask over his emotions. If he was feeling something, you could tell. His face was so openly expressive and naive – emotions always dancing in his eyes or tugging at his lips.

_He looked unfriendly, which was deceiving as anyone could see when they caught him interacting with a child or murmuring to his little brother. His eyebrows were the most expressive part of him besides his eyes, and they were either arched high in disbelief or furrowed low in concern._ _Only those who knew him best would know that his expressions were like a mask. You never did know quite what he was thinking._

The eyes weren't right. By not right, I meant not _Ed's – _which really wasn't a fair comparison. Because, in all fairness, _no one _could have Ed's eyes.

_When he looked at you, you melted in pools of rippling, liquid gold._

And then he spoke, and it was with the same gentleness that I saw in his expression. "So...you are Roy Mustang, sir?"

_And then he spoke, and it was with the same hardness that I saw in his expression. "You're a bastard, Colonel. You know that?"_

When I spoke back, I reflected the gentleness, and replied accordingly. "You...you look just like your brother," I lied, because that seemed to be what he wanted to hear. And certainly, it warranted the desired response, and he beamed at me.

_When I spoke back, I reflected the hardness, and replied accordingly. "I believe Elysia is gaining on you, Fullmetal,"_ _I mused, because that was exactly what he hoped I wouldn't say, I knew. And certainly, it warranted the desired response, and he scowled at me._

"Thank you, sir!" He chirped as he added three sugars to the bitter tea steaming away in his hand. He was distracted though, I could tell. Only one sugar actually ended up in his tea, and he seemed vaguely surprised that it still ran bitter on his tongue.

"Uh...so...you...knew Ed?" He put in tentatively, freezing before he added his brother's name, as if it were taboo to speak. Now that I had gotten over the shock of seeing a dead man at my door, the realization of what he was actually saying really _hit_ me. Al's uncomfortable behavior, his strange questions – _he doesn't remember me!_

"Of course I knew Ed, Alphonse!" I marveled., my eyes wide. "I knew you too. You remember, of course? You must. You separated fights between us at least twice a week." But the boy only looked down, no recognition, no familiarity. Only the stilted, stuffy formality that Edward never bothered with.

"Uh...no sir. I don't remember anything from when I was trapped in that armor." And his expression suggested that he was all too familiar with this particular line, as well.

I vaguely resented his choice of words. _Trapped _was hardly right. Ed gave up his _arm _to give that body to you, godammit. The old Alphonse would have remembered that.

"Oh." I responded vaguely, because, again, I had known what his response would be already. And then something else struck me as odd; this Alphonse was so timid and naive. He wasn't the Alphonse I knew, because my Alphonse had four years of hardship to make him bold and unafraid. This boy was little more than a total stranger.

"Er..."

"Um..."

"So...you came to hear about your brother, then?" I assumed that this could be the only explanation for his sudden arrival on my doorstep. It couldn't have been the tea he came for, after all, because most of that had ended up in his lap when his hands refused to cease in their violent shaking.

After much mental debate, I chose not to ask about why he remembered absolutely nothing – and why his brother wasn't with him (where his brother was? how did he die? why did he leave me? why him instead of you!). If he felt as strongly for Ed as I did (which of course, he must have) he probably didn't want to talk about it anyway. Besides, I wasn't stupid. I could put two and two together.

"Y-y-yes, sir!" I felt my blood running cold. I didn't want to talk about him; the wounds were far too fresh, still scabbing. I had only just stopped the free flow of blood. But there was a desperation in his eyes that tugged and ripped at my conscience.

_Who are you to deny the boy his older brother?_

So I gave in.

"Edward Elric was," I hesitated and he looked at me – rapt, intent, excited – so I continued. "Amazing. That's the only way to describe it, really." He smiled, and I lost my breath for a moment with the sheer force of it. I went on.

And before long, I was confiding in him all my personal feelings about Ed, all the stories I knew, all the journeys that he had taken, all the lives that he had saved. I wove a colorful tapestry of heroic tales to the marveling Alphonse, who sat on the edge of his seat beaming and taking sips out of a tea cup that had gone dry hours ago. And when I ran out of happy stories to tell, I started on the sad ones, which were, depressingly, far more numerous.

By the time that I had ended with our final meeting in front of the church and the underground city that would claim his life, hours had flown by unnoticed and my face was covered in tears that I hadn't realized were falling.

My clock struck eleven (almost midnight already?), and we waited silently for the chimes to pass before daring to meet each other's eyes. He got up suddenly, and his familiar red jacket (so much like Ed, why hadn't I notice before?) brushed his knees. I assumed that he would leave, find somewhere nice and private to cry or sulk or...or something. That's what I wanted to do, anyway. But just as I turned to pick up Alphonse's empty teacup, he grabbed my wrist, looked me straight in the eye...and oh God, _oh God,_ Ed was _there_. Reborn in my tiny living room.

It was a moment before I realized that, no, Ed hadn't risen from the phoenix's ashes to live again. It was only Al's eyes flashing a brilliant gold in the dim lamplight, his face contorting into a mask of unparalleled confidence and determination, his hair appearing to be tinted just a bit lighter, and the disappearance of his naivety and fear – if only for a moment. He spoke, and I found that my eyes were burning with tears again as the familiarity broke a dam suppressing years of fond memories.

"I'm trying to get my brother back."

_"I'm trying to get my brother's body back."_

"And if you won't help me, _I'll do it on my own."_

I suppose that he took my speechlessness and gaping mouth for a "no," because in a fit of impatience befitting of his older brother, he marched for the door.

Now, looking back on it, I wish I had said more. But all that I managed was a feeble, "Good luck..." which earned a weak smile before he tromped out my door, and out of my life forever.

It wasn't so hard to get up the next morning – what with no hangover to deal with and a mental image of Edward Elric crystal clear and complete to look to and draw strength from.

I only met him once.

Once was enough.

* * *

I'd like to wish everyone who reviewed Happy Holidays! -takes deep breath-

Kamako, Gozilla, Miranda Crystal-Bearer, Lain Blackchurch, Kiesha, Henrika, BC, Flashlight Maniac, Faded-Justice, Primeval Eidolon Scar, Crystalazer, Crazygirl91, Sallonic, Itaru-sama, Kyumi Terakada, The Teenage Writer, HagarenFanGirl, fullmetal 4eva, WildfireDreams, and a very special thanks to K a w a i i - S y a o r a n and all of my regular reviewers who have left very, very kind reviews for each chapter. I really appreciate you. Also, thanks to everyone who has favorited me or put me on their alert list. Again, Happy Holidays!

Reviews, please?


	6. Star

-SIGHGASPSTUTTERGAG- Are you happy, reviewers? YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY **KILLED **ME WITH THIS CHAPTER! T.T

Me: Oh wow! Everyone loved chapter four! O.O LOOKIT THAT HIT COUNTER! I think I'll write a sequel! -OMINOUS MUSIC-

Hmm...I think it's safe to say I can ignore that. :33 -ignores-

TWO WEEKS LATER

Me: DDD: DEAR GOD! MAKE THE PAIN STOPPPPP!

Ominous Music: Told you so. /

I would like to make a few things clear:

**1.** This is **NOOOOOOOOTTTTTTTTTTTT** **YAAAAAAAAOIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII**!

I will never write yaoi. Not now. Not ever. If you say in your review, "OMGILOVEROYxED!THANKSSSSd00d!" I will find out where you live, fly there with my Fullmetal Movie money, cut you open, take out your entrails, nail them to a pole, and shoot a gun at your feet until you dance and ALLLLL your guts come out. :3 Doesn't that sound like fun? Oh, I know. It does. DON'T WANT TO MEET THIS FATE? Don't say it's yaoi. 'Cause it's not. -venomous glare-

**2. **I really...REALLY...REAAAAAAAAALLLY want feedback. Reviews make my day. :D And if I get like 10 or 15 on this chapter, I'll have reached 100 total reviews. WHOA WHOA WHOA! Talk about schweet. Reviews make me want to write more, too.

**3. **This chapter had to be rewritten. Twice. TWICE. I have the rough drafts to prove it if any of you want to see. D'you know they were actually going to go on a picnic...hmm...can you say...change of plans? But yeah, I know it's not very good, and basically none of the meaning that I wanted is there. (AND IT'S SUPER SAPPY! X.X!) But I did try. D: I DID IT FOR YOU, REVIEWERS! FOR YOU! So guess what? **REVIEW!**

**4. **This was actually requested by several people. A lot of my homies wanted to see a sequel to this chapter. I guess I did leave it kinda unresolved. Well anyway, here it is. Solid proof that I take requests. So, if you can't tell what I'm getting at here...**MAKE A REQUEST! **Pleeeeaasee? And in your **_REVIEW_** because I want **_REVIEWS_**. Please? ...

Is there an echo in here?

Yeah. Review. :3 That's pretty much it.

If you want to understand, read chapter four, Need, first. This is the sequel.

Don't own it!

No spoilers!

Not yaoi!

Enjoy!

-coughreviewcough-

* * *

The first thing he heard was a gentle, lulling rhythm. It wafted from the radio on the breeze floating through the cracked window, and it was soothing. The sun on his face was warm and comforting, caressing his sharp features like his mother would have, warming them and bringing a healthy flush to pale, papery cheeks. And for a moment, he considered staying there forever, in the comforting state of mind that one assumed when they had not yet reached full wakefulness, and the mind still meandered sporadically in countless directions.

But the world had a cruel way of dragging Edward Elric back to reality whenever he found even the smallest semblance of peace, and the key scraping in the lock made him open his heavy-lidded eyes – albeit with extreme difficulty.

It was odd, the way that Roy suddenly appeared over him, and it made Ed realize perhaps his heavy-lidded blink had lasted much long than he anticipated. Because certainly, he couldn't recall the man being so fast that he could be at the door one minute and hovering over him with a worried expression he had been wearing so often lately plastered on his face the next.

The world was shrouded in a silver mist, Edward marveled vaguely in the moments when he was able to pry his eyes open. He found himself smiling like an idiot as he absently fingered the soft wool blanket from Gracia, because it was the loveliest that the world had looked in an awfully long time. A nagging feeling that there was something that ought to be bothering him floated in and out of his hazy mind, but he couldn't find the energy to care at the moment. Not when the silver clouds tickled at his senses, made him feel a beautiful, drowsy, giddiness that he hadn't felt since his...since his...

Since his world had fallen apart.

Since his life had been torn to pieces.

Since his brother had died.

And quite suddenly, the gentle mist that had once tickled his features and given him a sense of joy, turned into a smoggy haze that did nothing but fog his vision and deceive his acute senses.

After several more minutes of trying to shake the fog clear, he gave up, and turned his attention to Roy who rapidly shifted his weight from foot to foot mere inches away from Ed's ear, shouting something that, even in the close proximity, Edward's mind couldn't comprehend.

"Edward...lazy...you haven't...since... left...hear...Ed..." Though it was fractured and disjointed, the urgency that laced the tone made Ed understand that Roy was _worried_, and not pissed again like he had been when Ed broke a good dinner plate on the wall two nights ago.

There were still grease stains in the wallpaper.

Edward tried to respond, really, he did, but his throat felt as if it had been filled with cotton when he was sleeping, and all that came out was a muffled gurgle that quite closely resembled a sob. But it wasn't, Ed reprimanded himself firmly. It wasn't a sob, because he had gotten past that, he had gotten _past_ it, damnit. The medication was helping, the medication would help (or Roy was a dead man). And soon he would be living, really living, just like Al wanted him to.

But it was hard, so hard to live without him, and rather than getting easier, each day only made the weight heavier, until he was practically sagging and withering away under the enormous force of it.

"I...I can't think...straight," he managed to force out after Roy offered him a cup of something – what, he really didn't care – and even though white starbursts erupted before his eyes from the effort of forcing himself into a sitting position, he managed. Because that seemed to be what Roy wanted, and Ed was feeling relatively amiable this morning.

Well– he glanced at the clock – this evening.

Roy's expression grew dark before he covered it with a smirk again. But this smirk was not familiar, not the one that Ed had seen far too many times in his years in the military (_with his brother_), this one was jaded and distant, and it didn't help. Because even if Alphonse wasn't here anymore, everything else should be exactly the same. That's just the way that it should be.

"I know...they...that damn doctor sure did drug you to the gills, didn't he?" Edward only nodded his head gingerly, wary of the black and white dots that still speckled his vision. "I'm sorry, but if you want to get better..."

Ed flinched and looked at his blanket, "I'm _not_ sick..." That made Roy frown, the corners of his mouth turning downward deliberately, slowly, carefully choosing a response that would avoid bringing harm to him and his already suffering home.

The walls around Edward's little nest were dotted with wide holes – the size of a teenager's fist, actually – and Roy had tried to cover them with paintings he had found at garage sales and photographs of his friends and family, at least until he could get around to fixing them (because Edward certainly wouldn't – he had stopped using alchemy, it seemed). But it ended up looking odd, having those frames so low on his wall, and so scattered. There wouldn't have been so many if Roy had stuck to his personal photograph collection, but once, he had made the mistake of framing and hanging a picture of the Elric brothers, smiling and laughing as the presented an enormous, gleaming trout to the camera. He put it just over the couch, where Edward had punched in a fit of rage the second week of the "angry, rebellious phase." The doctor had said that it would pass, that it was just a stage the in the mourning process for young men, but Roy's house was suffering, and it wasn't even _over _yet. Edward had broken the photograph frame, and blood speckled the wall as well because of the glass, and then proceeded to punch the wall for the two hours with, alternating between a flesh and automail fists, until Roy got home, went to his side, saved his wall from further damage, and cleaned the tears off his face and the blood off his hands.

"Not all sicknesses affect the body, Ed," and he tousled the boy's hair and rose slowly to his feet. "How about we have a picnic outside, you and me? It's a lovely evening." Edward snorted at the thought of going outside. It had been an awfully long time since he'd been outside.

"I don't think...that's...I just can't." The sentence was tiring, and he flopped against the pillows again, exhausted, expected the Colonel...no...Major-General (_different..._) to sigh and attempt to force feed him a can of corn.

But the sigh never came. The spoon never came to pry his lips apart. Roy said nothing.

Instead he heard a muffled cry, a sob even, but Edward reasoned logically that it couldn't have come from Roy. Because Roy didn't cry.

It came again, a little whisper, barely audible over the traffic sounds outside and the hum of the radio within, and it scared Edward out of his mind. Slowly, so slowly, he placed his feet on the ground and tried to gain his footing. But the haze of drugs made him misjudge the distance between his mattress and the floor, and he tumbled to the ground with a startled yelp.

That was enough to bring Roy running from the kitchen, hands covered in flour, eyes puffy and red. "Ed? Are you okay?" His voice wavered, and Ed vaguely wondered why, though he could barely hear his own thoughts over the blood pounding mercilessly in his ears. Ed shoved him back weakly, determined to show the Colon– _Major-General _that he wasn't helpless, godammit. That he could do it for himself even if the antidepressants made him hopelessly exhausted. So with a firm resolve and shaking limbs, he stood up, standing at a not-so-impressive, but confident height.

Before he could fully eliminate the nauseating sense of vertigo, Roy's arms were wrapped around him, and the sickly scent of ashes and aftershave tickled his nostrils.

It was strange, having to comfort the man who had spent the last three months comforting him, but Ed did his best to soothe him with several awkward pats on the back.

"Ed...are you...are you happy here?" Edward puzzled over the question for a moment as his legs continued to tremble. He hadn't been happy...in a long time. But he humored Roy and answered with a nod.

The man always seemed to know when he was lying. "Perhaps you would be happier...where the doctor recommended?" Edward let out a sharp breath and swiftly pulled away, looking at Roy with incredulous golden eyes. "He called me again today. I told him...I told him that you were...you weren't _better_ yet. And he wants to take you to the – "

"Am I too much trouble?" He snarled fiercely, but behind the harsh words, he was heartbroken to have to look at the last person he considered family and think that maybe Roy didn't want him. Just like everyone else.

And it was all his fault.

"It's not that! It's – I don't know if what I'm doing is best for _you_." But Ed was deaf to all denials of his current state of mind, because the pieces were finally beginning to fit. This was the way it usually was, and this was the way things were meant to be. Edward wasn't allowed happiness, and it was only fair really – this was what he deserved for ruining as many lives as he did. This is the price that he had to pay.

So he buried his face into the pillow with such purpose that Roy let out another sort of strangled sob and marched out the apartment door.

* * *

By the time Ed had made up his mind to follow Roy's example and head out the front door, it was dark, and the window pane was cool on his skin as Ed pressed against it to gaze down at the solitary figure on the back lawn. And for the first time in several months, he cared. Try as he might, Ed wasn't able to forget that this man that been the first at his side when _Al _died, the first one to help when he awoke – scared and hopelessly alone.

So he began an awkward and terribly slow journey down the two long flights of stairs, mind racing with possibilities and heart beating rapidly at the thought of going outside for the first time since...since...

No matter. He would do it, and that was that, because Roy deserved as much, and he owed it to Roy. Still, his resolve wavered. Maybe...he should let them remove him from the home he had found in his superior officer's apartment? Maybe _that _was what Roy really deserved. He stopped, cold automail making new dents and grooves in the worn banister where he clutched it, gaze sharper than it had been in months penetrating a wall across from where he stood.

It wasn't until a little old woman that he thought he recalled from somewhere approached him and gave a timid tug to his sleeve that he pulled out of his reverie. Shaking his head, he looked down (_looked **down**_!) into her wide, bespectacled eyes.

"You're the boy that Roy's taken such a liking to?" She inquired softly.

"I suppose." He painted his best I-don't-give-a-damn expression on his face.

"May I ask why you're heading into the chill in your pajamas?" Edward seemed surprised at that, inclined his head to see that he was indeed still clothed in a pair of Roy's far too large pajamas. He lifted an automail hand to hurriedly redo the top two buttons and tighten the drawstring at his dreadfully thin waist, wondering if the old woman knew exactly what kind of boxer shorts he was wearing, already.

But she didn't seem angry, nor did she seem afraid when automail emerged from the blue cotton at his sleeve. She only smiled, told him not to move, disappeared into her apartment momentarily, and returned with a wooly hat and scarf. After several moments of the old woman waiting expectantly, mouth twitching between a frown and a smile, he obediently bent over so that she could place the hat over long, longer than it ever had been, unkempt hair and wrap his neck in the folds of the scarf. She looked at him, long and hard, considering the prominent cheekbones and flyaway hair, the automail, the tiny waist, the battle scars, her scrutinizing eyes traveling over his every flaw.

Just when the boy had grown tired of the unwanted attention, her face split into a wide smile. "You're just as he says. Stubborn one, aren't we?" Edward cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "I'm very sorry for your loss, child." Oh. Roy had told her...how could he, that bastard! At that point, Edward had half a mind to turn on his heel and start an awkward way back up the stairs, let the bastard rot by himself in the backyard, but the increasingly aggravating old woman seemed to have other ideas. "He loves you very much, you know." Shit. "I remember the day he carried you in here, worried out of his mind. Mind you, Mr. Mustang's been my neighbor for quite some time now. When he was younger, I got my fair share of two o'clock knocks on my door from him. He was always drunk out of his mind, of course. But you seem to have changed him, you know. You've made him so _responsible_. I believe...I believe that he thought, before you, he had run out of things to care about."

"I..."

"I'll tell you what I told him a long time ago, boy. Don't ever doubt that there are people who care about you." She turned to leave, casting one last look at his automail hand before disappearing into her room.

* * *

Before, Ed had failed to notice how positively lovely the tulips blooming in the well-kept flowerbeds that lined the garden walls were. And now, he wondered how he could have possibly done such a thing. Because they _were_ beautiful, clustered together just so, white and yellow and red, sparkling in the dew that came with the fall of night. He felt the urge to pluck one that leaned into the garden path as he passed it, wondered how this particular flower had managed to escape the watchful gardener's eye and creep into the well-trodden aisle of rock. But he didn't because, he remembered bitterly, Al had never liked it when he plucked flowers.

_"If you pick them all, no on will be able to enjoy them, Brother. Come on, we'll transmute a flower for mother."_

The man he sought was seated among the blooms, absently running his hand over the petals, and humming something Ed remembered hearing a long time ago – though he couldn't quite recall the words. "Edward. Go back inside. You'll catch your death."

"Aww, a lousy cold can't be any worse than dehydration." And he had been dehydrated more times in the last three months than he could shake a stick at.

Roy turned quickly to look at him, his eyes searching the depth's of Edward's own, looking there for the sarcasm and humor that he had heard in the voice seconds before.

When he found only the same dead, gold expression, he turned around, and sprawled onto his back. "Go back inside." He said with a finality that practically _demanded_ Edward's retaliation. So, a faint flicker returning to his eyes, Ed continued forward until he was standing at Roy's side.

"I thought you wanted me to come outside." He fell to his knees.

"Not barefoot in your pajamas." He fell back to his rear.

"I'm not cold." And finally, mimicking Roy, he lay down on his back, limbs splayed unceremoniously throughout the long, dewy grass.

"The condensation will make you rust."

"Will make my _automail_ rust," Ed corrected politely. "My automail is not 'me.'"

"...Pardon me. Your automail."

"In that case, let the damn thing rust. I'm watching the stars with you," he replied matter-of-factly.

"What?"

"Look. The stars are coming out." Ed pointed, and Roy followed the line that his gleaming automail finger made to the first star pushing its way into the sky through the bright haze of twilight.

The cool air cleared the boy's head, and the thoughts were coming faster, sharper now. Oh God, he _was _happy here. Because he had found a _home_ again.

"Oh. I see it." There was a long silence, long enough that the rest of the stars visible over Central all peeked out from their hiding places beyond the horizon and reflected in attentive, shining golden eyes. When he had seen every star, memorized every glimmer, etched the picture into his mind, right next to the stars he remembered from Rizenbul, he turned his attention to the sliver of a moon. It was covered in a thin layer of wispy clouds, its pinprick beams of light trying with all their might to challenge the intensity of the sun itself.

"I feel sorry for the moon. And the stars. Don't you, Colonel?"

So curious was Roy that he forgot to remind Ed that he was not a Colonel anymore and hadn't been for quite some time. "Why's that Edward?"

For a moment, Ed stopped thinking scientifically and let his childish ideas saturate all his thoughts. "Because...everyone...everyone is so blinded by the heat and the brightness and the beauty of day that they forget night. They forget every day must have a night, and you can't be too focused on the day...or you'll just sleep through the beauty of the evening all the time. Everyone should stop to look at the stars, sometimes."

The understanding dawned on Roy, and somehow he knew that this was Edward trying to apologize, without actually – well – apologizing. "Ed, I..."

"...I've been focusing on the sun too much, Roy." He stifled a yawn with a flesh fist, and turning to his side, curled into a ball. "I need to...watch the stars more often." He teetered on the edge of a sleep that he had been tempted to succumb to since waking in the afternoon with the sun on his face. But before letting unconsciousness take him, he listened, strained his ears, and heard his little brother beside him – whispering a name for a star he _swore _had not been there the night before, and laughing, a gentle, tinkling laugh, as he wondered why anyone would make a constellation that was shaped like a spoon. And then he heard himself responding, _"You're a dope, Al! But I love you."_

"You're an idiot Roy." The second half hung unspoken in the air, but even so – Roy knew it was there.

"Yeah? You too." He smiled softly as Roy patted him gently on the head, and then Ed fell asleep, silver streaks of moonlight glinting off of golden hair that hung limp around his lax face – and making Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, look like an angel.

---

The next day, Roy came home from work surprised to find Edward had restored his den to its former glory – Roy's living room wall looked exactly as it had before a temperamental sixteen-year-old boy had invaded his life, his home – his heart. And over the sofa hung an aging, tattered photograph of two beaming little boys.

* * *

...Do I really have to say it:D 


	7. Rust

Guess who finally finished a story!

No! Not him!

Nope...not her either! D:

...okay _fine_. I'll just tell you.

Me, stupid. :3

I don't know what to think of it. I'm not especially proud, but I don't hate it either. It may seem rather rushed, and that's because it _was –_ I really just wanted to get something out there. It's been far too long!

Please excuse the delay. School has me incredibly busy! I'm thinking of turning this fic into an "Ed and Al on the run from the law!" fic... And eventually an "Incredibly evil ending that I already have planned!" fic... You know...Like...a series. Tell me if you think that's a good idea. :3 Just know that I do indeed have several more stories coming VERY soon (and for you LAXgirl, I'm having TONS of fun with your requests. -huggles you- THANK YOU FOR MAKING SUCH WONDERFUL REQUESTS :D)

You know what? I love you, oh-mighty-reviewers. I think that I ended up getting well over 15 reviews on the last chapter – far more than I ever expected. I'm so proud. :D You guys are making me feel so incredibly awesome. So you know what? KEEP IT UP! Review, review, review! And this time, I believe that I'll personally take the time to respond to each review because there are so many things that I want to say to you guys (thanks, most of all!) and it just isn't fair that I don't get to say it. D! So if you review, prepare to get a loving response in return. One good deed deserves another after all...or...uh...something like that?

Anyway, that's enough out of me. :3

A gentle reminder, this is NOT Elricest (because Elricest is icky! O.o) it's brotherly luff.

Please, don't forget to review.

I love you all.

Enjoy.

* * *

Rust. Godammit. God _fucking_ damnit.

He glared distastefully at the copper blemishes adorning the otherwise (relatively) unmarred steel surfaces of his prosthetic.

What was better than a big fucking splotch of rust on his elbow joint to brighten his day?

Experimentally, Ed flexed his arm, hearing the smooth whir of the inner mechanism as it sprung to life. It was sluggish yet in the early hour – the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon and Ed wouldn't even have been awake were it not for the strange tingling at his elbow that was enough to rouse him from a peaceful, dreamless slumber. _Al_ hadn't even woken.

Almost as soon as he had mustered enough energy to get the damnable elbow to flex properly, he found that the movements were slow and jerky, and there was a nasty-sounding grating noise to accompany the red flakes that fell to the damp ground with every degree the mechanism inched up or down. And to make matters worse, he could _feel_ it. Human nerves, quite obviously, did not rust – _could_ not rust. But, he conceded with a small sigh, automail nerves – nothing more than copper wires and metal conductors, could. And when those wires that now served as Edward's central nervous system underwent the devastatingly slow chemical breakdown, flaked apart bit by bit, he felt it. And it hurt like hell.

He clutched desperately at the cursed elbow and clapped his hands, forcing them together so hard that his arms trembled with the force of it and the pain in his automail elbow increased to a maddening, white-hot intensity; he wanted to do _something _already because the goddamned thing was driving him _mad_.

_You don't know anything about automail you idiot..._

And forcing his hands apart, he restrained himself. Still, his hands itched to tear at the wires, to deliver himself from the raw, throbbing pain that had taken up residence in his elbow. But Al's steady breathing beside him kept him anchored through the pain, kept his breathing steady, and allowed him to stop himself before he did something so stupid as to alchemize the inner mechanisms of his own arm (the casing was a different story entirely – he could decompose and reform that all he liked, but messing with the guts of his arm was for Winry and Pinako alone). Almost instinctively, he slowly lay back down and began the soothing chemical breakdown of his prosthetic, holding the limb in question tightly against his chest, away from the damp of the dew-soaked grass so as not to make matters worse.

"Copper...Iron...Chromium...I wonder how thick the casing on the forearm is..." It was little more than a harsh whisper, a breathy, windy sound in the cool, still dawn, but even soft as it was, Al woke to the unconscious litany of Ed's alchemic rambling and rubbed tiredly at his eyes.

"Niisan...?" Ed looked at him, surprised, and kept a firm hold on his aching elbow.

"Sorry I woke you, Al..." He fingered the grass with agile digits, eventually coming to pluck a long stalk and place it between his teeth, sucking it dry. His throat hurt – when his automail was paining him, everything else on his body was, too – and he would have given anything for a nice, tall glass of ice water.

"S'ok, Niisan. Something wrong?" He lightly put a hand on Ed's shoulder, his good shoulder, and cocked his head as if to say _'I know there is. I know you better than you know yourself.'_

That _look, _coupled with the nagging pain in his elbow led him to jerk his shoulder away from Al's gentle hold and curl into himself a bit more on the cold ground, still clutching the automail with a trembling hand.

"Niisan!" Al's bottom lip quivered, and Ed immediately regretted pushing his brother away.

"I'm sorry, Al. It's just..." But Al silenced him with a wave of his hand. His eyes flitted over Edward's stance – scrutinizing, calculating, and bright – and through the way Edward was holding himself, through the way he was curled around his automail, clutching it like a talisman, it quickly became apparent to Al that something was wrong with Ed's arm.

"Oh, Ed..." And Al's eyes were filled with a different kind of pain, now. Guilt and sympathy and sorrow flooded them all at once and made his into expression something so sad that Ed uncurled himself, biting back a wince, and set a flesh hand on Al's knee. He couldn't quite fathom what exactly had put that melancholy flicker in his brother's eyes, what exactly made him look so solemn, but he knew that something needed to be done about it. This was his little brother, after all.

"Hey, hey. What is it?" Al scrunched his face and turned away a bit, knew that if he admitted to Edward that something was bothering him, Edward would ignore his own pain completely. And that was what was really important right now. And so, he forced his lips into a painful-looking curl and turned back to his brother.

"Let me see, Niisan." Gesturing the automail arm in question warranted a sharp intake of breath from Ed, and an obvious hesitancy to comply. Edward's eyes flashed between his arm and Alphonse before he hid the heavy metal thing behind his back, insisted that nothing was the matter, Al, why would you say something like that? before he hiccuped and laughed nervously. "Let me see." Al insisted again, firmer this time. But Ed was still hesitant, still so nervous to let Al see this pain, even though he thought that he had laid that fear to rest along with Al's armor months ago.

The sun was on their faces now, and Edward was finally able to see where they had fallen into an exhausted sleep the night before – a forest a clearing, a pleasant little green thicket. But pleasant as it was, they couldn't stay here long, Ed knew. They had to keep moving. Constantly moving, vigilantly keeping one eye over their shoulder and one eye on the road ahead. With so much watching, so much concentration, it wasn't often that either shared moments like this anymore, because with so many places to look, peripheral visions became insignificant. The big picture was ahead and behind.

Al knew this certainly, but he cursed himself for failing to notice what pain his brother was in until now. This wasn't a problem that developed overnight.

Al gasped as the familiarity of the statement struck him like a lead weight, and he looked toward his brother with wide eyes. With a sudden surge of fear, Al dove at his brother, put a hand to his forehead to check his temperature and busied his other hand with spreading Ed's eyelids apart to make sure his pupils reacted properly to the light – he had seen his mother's doctor do it once.

Ed yelped at the sudden unexpected impact and lay splayed on the ground, pinned beneath his brother's greater weight (He was older! He should be able to prevent this, godammit!)

"What the hell, Al?" he spat as his brother jammed two fingers into the juncture of his jaw and neck hard enough to leave a bruise.

"I'm checking your pulse, Niisan," Al responded calmly. "You don't look well." And he didn't, but that may or may not have been the fault of a sickness. Neither, after all, had been taking proper care of themselves very well since finding a meal from day to day had become so difficult.

"Al, please. I'm fine, I'm alright...it's just...my arm..." He nodded weakly at his right arm, pinned beneath Al's thigh. Reluctantly, Al stopped checking Ed's vitals, and glanced down at the arm he had forgotten entirely in his sudden feverish desire to assure himself that his brother was _alright_.

"I...I'm sorry." A pause.

"Al?"

"Yes, Niisan?"

"Can you uh...get off me?" Al turned a prominent shade of scarlet at the sudden realization that he was straddling his brother's stomach and leapt to his feet.

"I'm sorry, Niisan. It's just...I remembered..." Al looked intently at a blade of grass several feet away as it swayed in the early morning breeze, concentrating on anything but his brother. "I remembered something about when mom died." Ed barely managed to prevent himself from drawing in an anxious breath.

"Al...?" And when Al turned back he was all smiles again, and the tension was gone. Edward vaguely wondered how the hell his brother was able to _do _that so quickly – fall down, then spring to his feet again, agile as a cat, acting as if he had never fallen at all. But then he remembered.

_Ah. Stupid question._

Al always had taken after his older brother, after all.

"Alright, I promise I won't pounce on you this time. Just give me your arm." Al flashed his teeth in a wide grin again, but his eyes were only tired. This time, Ed didn't have the heart to refuse him.

"Yeah...alright..." Closing his eyes for the onslaught of pain that he knew was coming, Edward threw his arm dramatically in front of him, holding it straight out into the air for Al's convenience. He braced himself, muscles tensed in anticipation but – it never came. The pain never came. Ed cautiously cracked his eye open a slit to see his brother with a newly transmuted screwdriver opening the casing on his arm and gently, ever so gently, opening it to tamper with the damaged mass of wires and metal inside.

"Niisan...your elbow is rusted through!" Ah. No wonder it hurt so damn much. "What are we going to do, we're _weeks_ away from Rizenbul!"

"Nothing, Al! We can't go back. You _know _that they're watching Rizenbul!" He snatched his arm back, and pain flared up in his elbow again, only this time, intensified tenfold from the dull ache he had felt that morning. He let out a quiet hiss and crouched on the ground, suddenly very dizzy.

"Easy, Ed! Here, let me help you with the release catch – "

"No! You can't take it off!" He made a valiant attempt to slide across the forest clearing, but stopped as another wave of nausea overtook him and forced him to a fetal position on the ground. "Allllll..." He whimpered pathetically.

His brother, Al reflected, was rather like a cat when he was hurting. He didn't like to be around others, tended to hide to give his wounded pride and body a chance to heal.

However, when hiding was impossible, he sure made one hell of a scene about it.

"Easy Niisan," Al crooned. "I'm going to take it off now, alright?" Ed gave out a pained sounding breathy exhale which Al took to be assent, and made his way slowly to Ed's right shoulder, moving cautiously so as not to startle his older brother. "Ready?" A curt nod and a simultaneous mental countdown...

_Three..._

_Two..._

_One..._

"GYAAAH!"

"Sorry, Niisan." He was surprised by his brother's scream – that automail must have been paining him something awful for him to scream like that. But Al had his prize, and he hefted it into his arms triumphantly. He marveled at the sheer weight of it, the enormous mass that you couldn't really appreciate until you were either wearing it on your body or holding the full weight of it in your own two hands. It was little wonder that Ed was so strong, having to keep up with _two_ of these monstrous metal structures. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Al," Ed steadied his breathing and gave Al a weak grin. "You had to."

Al flexed the elbow in his hands and listened to it grate and crumble, and upon poking around in the wires, he found several that had rotted away to practically nothing. Al knew that within a few days, his brother's arm would have become a useless deadweight on his heavily scarred shoulder – they would have needed to remove it no matter what. "...You haven't been taking care of it." Wait...something wasn't right here. This arm was too heavy, the fingers weren't flexible enough, and there was a certain defining smoothness that it was lacking.

"I...well...awww, you know how _hard _it's been, Al – don't give me that look. We haven't slept under a decent roof for weeks and it's nearly impossible to keep the water – "

"The casing is thin," Al interrupted quietly, and Ed's mouth went slack. "That's how the water got in."

"Al...there are some things more important than – "

"Than what! Than you! That's not _true, _Niisan. I'm no more important than you are. This isn't your arm, is it?" Edward looked at the ground, eyes narrowed. "Is it?" Al repeated furiously.

"...No."

"Where's Winry's arm?"

"...I...I sold it." And Alphonse could only stare. "They locked up my account, Al. And after we ran out of the money from Granny...I didn't know what the hell to do. All that money came from my arm." There was another awkward silence, and Ed continued his ramble, unconsciously digging himself into a deeper and deeper hole. "I think Winry would be pleased at the price it fetched, really. We've been living off it for three weeks now, anyway." He let out a dry, throaty laugh that Alphonse thought closely resembled a sob.

"So you bought this scrap heap instead?" It would have hurt even if it weren't rusting – wearing this arm. It didn't align properly with Edward's port, and it was far too large and far too heavy for Edward's rather petite frame.

"It was all that I could afford." Al paused before delivering the real killer.

"Winry will be devastated." Edward winced noticeably.

"...I know," he was NOT going to regret this godammit! He did it for Al, and Edward would never, never regret anything he did for Al's sake.

"We have to go back, Niisan. We have to get you an arm."

"Really Al, I can live without it until things cool down around Central – "

"Things AREN'T going to just cool down, and you _know_ that! You're wanted for murder Niisan. Murder and human transmutation." Al couldn't breath suddenly through the tightness in his chest. "If they find you, they'll kill you." He moved to his brother's side, traced his strong jaw with a trembling index finger, and then buried his face in Edward's shoulder, breathing a barely audible, "And I can't let them have the chance," into his brother's pale skin.

Ed gripped Al in an awkward but warm one-armed embrace, inhaling the boy's distinctively warm and sweet scent, reminded yet again that _it was all worth it _if only to feel the faint thud of a heartbeat keeping in time with Edward's own.

He would feel guilty later for letting himself indulge in this moment of sheer, unprecedented _bliss_, would later feel that maybe he let himself revel in the warmth of his brother's arms for just a bit too long. But it was so rare that they shared moments like this anymore, that Edward forgave himself nearly immediately after.

It was okay to just _forget_ sometimes.

"We're going to go get you a new arm. One of Winry's."

"Mmm..." And if Al noticed that his older brother had begun to weep into his tattered old jacket, he didn't say a word.

* * *

...Well? Reviews, please? -luffsyouallforreading- 


	8. Replacement

Ah! Going to hurry with the comments, as it is now...3:52 a.m. here in Idaho, and my mom will kill me if she wakes up and sees me writing this. O.O

I like this one. :D Dunno why, just do. It seems my writer's block is gone, because while it took me about THREE WEEKS to do sucky-suck "Rust" this probably took me about two hours – and I like it a hell of a lot better.

I'm ashamed of myself for writing this. I have SO MUCH history homework to do. PLEASE EVERYONE WISH ME LUCK ON THE EXAM THIS WEEK! A trial for the AP Exam – 2 FRQs, 1 DBQ, 80 Multiple Choice. Lucky. Me. I'm so nervous. But then, after that, SPRING BREAK! And I'll be writing like whoa.

This is a prequel, I suppose, to "Shattered." I mean, it really wasn't meant to be, and there are probably some inconsistencies, but it kinda seemed to fit. Really, I just did it because I had several people request more Hoho. And even though this is more Edo...er...it's got Hoho too. :D;;; WHEN YOU SQUINT! ... DON'T MOCK ME!

ANYWAY! I hope you enjoy reading, because I enjoyed writing.

Luff you all.

Reviews? Please?

**WARNING!**: End of series spoilers, LOTS of swearing for some reason, and way too many italics. :D

Enjoy!

* * *

Ed would later think that it was stupid, waking up the way he did. He had only just undergone another trip through the gate, had just lost two limbs for the second time in his life, had just had his only family and his familiar world torn away from him – and the first thing that came out of his mouth when he woke up on the Other Side did anything but reflect the tortures and horrors he had endured. Surely, he should have said something noble – a selfless remark? – something sweet – whispered apologies to his dear little brother? – hell, even something profound – a quote from one scientist or another. That was the kind of dramatic awakening Edward would have liked to make, because dammit, if he was going to be stuck in another world, he wanted respect from the people who lived there. Unfortunately, what he said was anything but that, would do little to earn him respect – indeed it would probably only earn him pity that he really could go without, right now.

"'m fuckin' _hot_." The words sounded strange and foreign even as they rolled off his tongue. That wasn't his voice was it? No...it couldn't be. His own voice wasn't so muted and husky, and he couldn't recall himself sounding as if he'd just inhaled a mouthful of smog in his own world. Edward concluded that it most certainly couldn't have been him, and he tried again, louder this time. "...hurts _s'damn bad_..." He wasn't sure what he was trying to do by speaking aloud. He didn't expect anyone would be near him. The fucking all-powerful-asshole of The Gate had probably dumped him in some field or some ocean somewhere – without an arm and leg to get himself to safety. The Gate always had been a sadistic bastard like that.

But then he came out of his own hurt long enough to realize that he was lying somewhere soft, that there was something blissfully cool resting over his eyes, and there was a soft pitter-patter he recognized instantly as rain on a windowpane. That meant he was inside. It also meant that he would need to get an umbrella so Al wouldn't have to worry about his blood seal when they walked to Eastern today –

No...

That wasn't right.

Al didn't like umbrellas. He liked to feel mud between his toes and moisture in his hair – and Edward didn't like giving him umbrellas on days like that anyway because he looked so fucking _beautiful _skipping through the drizzle like that, waving to his brother to join him. Ed always did, but he knew as soon as he stepped into the spray that mother would be cross when they returned home covered head to toe in mud –

No. That couldn't be right either. Edward tried to straighten things in his mind, but it was sluggish and muddled, having some problem interpreting all the messages his body was sending him. His head was hot, his body was cold, his eyes wouldn't open, his tongue was too heavy, the smell of this room just wasn't quite right, and everything hurt. His right arm was throbbing, his left leg was unbearable, and he couldn't help but think it was odd to find that there was nothing in his soft pajama sleeve when he reached over to massage the aching muscles. Something was wrong.

Everything was wrong.

Everything was _wrong_.

"Edward?" That voice was familiar. He knew that voice. If only he could place it... "Edward?" It repeated, and Ed wished that it would stop, because he had heard it the first time, and he knew his own name, dammit.

It was too deep to be Al's, too masculine to be Nina's.

And Mr. Tucker wasn't supposed to be back from his business for another few days.

Edward vaguely wondered if Alexander had learned to talk. Someday he would be a state alchemist like Mr. Tucker, and then maybe he could make Alexander talk like Mr. Tucker made the talking chimera. It would make Nina laugh.

No! That wasn't right either! That was wrong! That was dreadfully, horribly _wrong. _Nina was dead, Alexander was dead. Al was...Al was...

Maybe he had gotten Al's body back? Maybe his voice was just deeper now. Puberty did strange things to some people. Was Al was on the other side of The Gate? Was _he _on the other side of The Gate, or had it lied to him when it whispered that it was sending him to...what was it called...Earth? He hoped so. But if it had lied, this didn't smell like Granny Pinako's guest room, the sheets didn't feel like the ones in his dorm room at Eastern Headquarters, and it just didn't seem as warm as his home on the hill he shared with baby Alphonse, and mother and father. And if he felt this shitty, shouldn't Mom be there with a bowl of soup and a warm embrace – smiling and singing and picking him up so that he was _tall _in her arms, and he could see the whole _world_ over her shoulder –

No! Wrong! He was so damn _confused_! Why couldn't he _think _straight!

Ed let out a groan, because it seemed that was all that his heavy tongue and scratchy throat could manage.

Almost instantly, he heard his name again and a cup was pressed to his lips. No! He didn't want Yoki's wine! He refused to accept a bribe like that, damnit! He had to go after Scar before –

But it wasn't wine, it was water. And it was _cold. _Blessed cold! Ed gulped it greedily and let it slide down his throat without question. He was beyond the point of caring about where it had come from. Beyond the point of caring about much of anything except for Al. Being used as The Gate's punching bag tended to do that to you.

"Edward?" And some more garbled words came after that, but the only thing he seemed able to comprehend was his own name. Abruptly, the glass was yanked away, and Edward whined softly in protest.

"'m...hurts." He mumbled absently. What he had meant to say was 'I'm hurt, godammit. Give me the fucking glass back,' but again, his scratchy throat betrayed him. The sudden removal of his relief was enough to make him crack his tired eyes, though, which was, as he discovered, a complete waste of his efforts. He was met with moist blackness. _Washcloth_...his mind supplied hopefully. No damn good.

"...w'ter?" He tried again.

Success! The glass was back, and this time, the water couldn't flood down his throat fast enough. He lifted a trembling hand to tip it, assist it, make it _faster_, because it just wasn't coming quickly enough to quench his unrelenting thirst.

"You'll be sick," he heard, clear as day. Damn! That voice again. That amazing voice. It aroused so many emotions, and he wanted to get up – smack, hug, punch, kiss, kick, cry with the source of it. Too many emotions, too fast. He wasn't ready for all this.

"G'way..." he mumbled weakly, making a valiant effort to turn over. But a rough hand was on his shoulder, and there was that _voice _again, urgently whispering for him to stop – he was too weak, he would restart the bleeding.

Bleeding?

Ed couldn't remember bleeding.

Al would be angry when he found out.

So Ed stopped, lay still and attempted to feign slumber so whoever it was would leave him the hell alone. Then maybe he could sort through his muddled thoughts in peace.

But Ed soon realized that wasn't about to happen anytime soon. The persistent bastard lifted the cloth from his forehead and lay a warm hand there instead.

Ah! No! He was so hot already! Ed hissed and tried to squirm away, only to feel something warmer and more...ticklish there instead. He cracked his eyes again –

And found who but his _bastard father_ looming over him, cheek against his forehead in an attempt to gauge his frighteningly high temperature.

"No!" Suddenly, Ed's struggles increased exponentially, and he was writhing away from his father until he reached the edge of the _(heavenly soft) _mattress and toppled unceremoniously over the edge, landing in a tangled heap of limbs, blood-stained bandages, and bed sheets on a hard, cold, wood floor. He shivered, coughed, and bit back a pained scream.

_That **hurt**! _More than it should have, he added subconsciously.

"Edward!" And then he was dimly aware of being fussed over by his _(bastard) _father as his vision swam in and out of focus. "What are you thinking? You're so weak, you're ill! You're hurt!" And then he was talking too fast for Ed to even _begin _to comprehend.

Thinking hurt.

He was carefully lifted from the ground and gently, so gently, more gently than he had thought a man like Hohenheim capable of, onto the bed.

"Ah!" Ed cried before he was able to stop himself.

"I'm sorry Edward, did I hurt you?" His father spoke slow enough for his fevered brain to comprehend, and he tried to shake his head, _no you most certainly did not_ – but that hurt too. So he whimpered, instead.

"I'm sorry, Edward. I didn't mean to." Don't be sorry! Don't you _dare _be sorry _now_! And then his father was speaking to someone else in the room, telling him to get ice for the water because Edward was withering, melting, burning with a relentless fever.

"No!" He protested softly, to what he wasn't quite sure, and he opened his eyes –

A mistake.

"...Al? Alphonse!" Because it was indeed Al. The wrong height, the wrong age, the wrong, wrong, wrong, eyes. But...that meant that he had done it! His brother was back in the flesh, his brother was – was...all wrong. His brother shouldn't be looking at him like that.

"Ah...Professor Hohenheim, how does he know my name?" Edward inhaled and held the breath. No! Alphonse, I'm your brother!

"Alfons, please get the water," Hohenheim physically blocked his view of his brother, bodily threw himself between the two boys, and ushered Alphonse out of the room.

"But – "

"Please?" He didn't have the right to sound so desperate! _He_ was the desperate one! That bastard was keeping him from his little brother!

"...Alright." The voice was Al's too, dammit. A slammed door, a sigh of relief, and Edward was damn furious.

"Wh – what? Why?" Was all he could manage. And his father could only sigh.

"I'm pathetic, really." What the hell? "Keeping a cheap lookalike of my son around." WHAT. THE. HELL. "That's not Alphonse, Edward. At least – not the one you know." Edward gaped, felt his face burning with more than fever, and let out a pained puff of breath.

"How?"

"Surely, you're aware of where you are." And Edward remembered the gate looming before him again –

_Oh, Edward. Back again so soon. Most people don't see the gate their entire life, and here you are, back again for the...what? Third time in an hour? _

_What's that?_

_His soul?_

_My, my. Haven't I already given you that once?_

_Oh I see, body as well?_

_That's a hefty price Edward. Of course, if you are willing to pay..._

_Of course you are. Anything for dear Alphonse._

_You're well aware that your body and soul cannot gain the body of another, of course._

_The laws of equivalent exchange, and all that alchemy mumbo jumbo._

_Never you mind. I think, that rather than killing you, I'll ship you off to hell this time, boy. What do you think of that?_

_And just for good measure, I'll take these._

_What? Your brother. He'll be there, of course, as promised. _

_Waiting._

"Yes." I'm in hell, he wanted to say.

"Well...I'm sure you recall the first time you came here...how you were inhabiting a body so similar to your own? There was another Edward, it's only reasonable that there be another Alphonse, as well." Ah. So this really was hell.

The door opened, and Edward shut his eyes.

"Here you go, Professor."

"Thank you, Mr. Heiderich."

"You can call me Alfons, Professor." Edward twitched, cringed, and inhaled painfully at the name. "...Is he going to be alright?" No!

"It will take quite some time, but yes. I think he'll recover." I _never_ will! Not when my own brother doesn't fucking recognize me!

"That's good." Get the hell out of here!

"...Maybe you should go, I know you don't like blood." His Alphonse carried him a mile covered in his own blood. You would think that this one could manage a minute in a room with a bandaged wound.

"Has the bleeding started again?" That damn imposter, having the nerve to sound so squeamish.

"Yes." Really? Fuck! "He took a tumble off of the bed a few moments ago, and I think his bandages will need changing." Sure enough, his bastard father was right, he could feel the congealed blood at his arm mingling with fresh, warm liquid. The same at his leg. He was momentarily distracted from Imposter Alphonse by the sudden swell of pain. Ah! Why was it so much worse than the first time!

"Ah...I'll be downstairs if you need me, then." And he was gone. Edward breathed. It was a moment before he felt the cloth on his forehead again, refreshing and cold. Then his father's fingers, dripping with blessed coolness, dragged over his nose, lips, cheeks, neck and chest, wetting sweaty, hot skin as Edward painfully bit back sobs of pain and anguish and the_ unfairness _of it all.

Something nagged him as he felt sleep pulling him under again. He welcomed it, embraced its warm, creeping tendrils.

And without realizing it, he had asked the one question he thought least important to him. "...You replaced...me'n'Al?" He felt his father's hands still in momentary uncertainty before resuming his task, gentle as ever.

"Never." It was good enough.

He drifted to sleep.

* * *

Review! Luff you all. 


	9. Reunion

Dear Edward,

While I realize that I've been a heartless bastard in the past...hurting you, maiming you, giving you diseases, and generally being a pain in the ass...just know that, uhhhh...

-pointsatLAXgirl- SHE MADE ME DO THIS ONE!

Sincerely,

Captain Kase

-ahem- Yes, this one is a request. I'm not terribly fond of it...so if you hate it...ask for a redo. NO – DEMAND A REDO, LAXGIRL! **DEMAND ONE. **I was feeling rather dark when I was writing this...at some points at least. And I was thinking of being oh-so-cruel and just making Edward die. But I'm too nice! I gave you a happy ending. HOWEVER, if you _want _him to die, just SAY THE WORD and I'll change the ending. Because my mood is still not terribly great. -kickssomethings-

If I owe you a request, I've probably got it started somewhere. Just remind me. I'll finish it while I can. (I'M ON SPRING BREAK!)

LAXgirl,

I found out from reading the oh-so-subtle hints in your review that you wanted it told like "Once" so I COMPLETELY redid this story. Originally, I had this long one started (which I'll probably post eventually ANYWAY) but it was third person, and I don't think Roy played a big enough role. I always get distracted by brotherly love. -sigh- But rest assured, there's no Al in this one! Well...not much Ed either. It's pretty much Unconscious!Ed and Angsting!Roy.

ANYWAY. This is getting longer than the story. Please enjoy your story LAXgirl. This one is for you, man.

This is the sequel to "Once."

Not yaoi!

Enjoy!

* * *

Too afraid.

I was too afraid to let go.

I was too afraid that he was just going to slip away again, that I would lose him again, that he would be gone again _forever_. Forever this time, forever like the last time, forever like every time I saw him pale and drawn on white hospital sheets, panting and shaking and looking for all the world like he would melt and slip and slide like cool quicksilver between my fingertips – slither through the floorboards and out of my life forever.

Forever.

I held him, drew him to my chest and let him remain there – inhaled that old scent, that familiar scent of machine oil and sweat, tainted now with a sharp pang of metallic blood. He was here, he was _here in my fucking arms. _Breathing and alive and – alive. I couldn't seem to get past that word.

The excitement had awakened adrenaline and old emotions, and they flared and receded, flared and receded like fire in my veins with every unsteady beat of my heart. I felt it thudding painfully against my ribs and wondered vaguely if he could feel it, too through the strange fabric of his unfamiliar – tattered, brown, ugly – shirt. Too dull, brown was too dull for Fullmetal, I thought.

And then I realized that I didn't _care. _Ididn't care if he knew of my weakness of heart; I didn't care that he looked wrong – thin, pale, bleeding from the wrong sides (left arm, right leg? Hadn't he lost just the opposite?). Not when this moment was so painfully sweet, when a long overdue reunion had just begun in a dark alleyway by a shady pub in Central.

_Hurt! _My mind screamed. He's hurt, goddamn you! Get on your feet and get him out of rain! But that selfish, hideous, egocentric piece of me emerged from the darkest depths of my soul to tell me _no! _Not yet! You love this boy, you've missed this child as has the rest of the world – more so than so many others. This time is mine, I thought, mine with the child before the news was delivered, and the Rockbells arrived, and the reporters arrived, and Havoc and Ross and Hawkeye and Armstrong arrived, swooning over him. Before his brother met him.

More importantly, before _he _met his brother.

With that, I brought him closer to my chest, closed my eyes, released a shuddering breath.

He would get the attention he needed in due time – but I _needed_ this moment alone with him more than I cared to admit. This was what I had been hoping for for two fucking years, this was my secret dream. A secret dream that had found me awakening night after endless night panting, sweating, and breathless – though I always questioned why. It wasn't a bad dream, and only nightmares should merit that kind of reaction.

I would never remember the reason (which was, as it turned out, the ending of the dream) until midday at the office, when something or other would remind me of Edward, and my mind's eye would pull me back to the horrifying portraits it had painted of the gate, and Edward being consumed by it limb by fucking limb – screaming and crying my name as I watched helplessly through one godforsaken eye.

Pathetic, it would tell me. Useless human. You've failed another, Roy Mustang. How many lives will you give to me before you finally give your own?

I would scream to myself, TOO MANY! Far too many! Before excusing myself to the bathroom and puking until the visions of Edward's blood on the immaculate floor near The Gate was obscured by my own tears and sweat and vomit.

How many times had I dreamed of this moment? How long had I longed for another touch with the child in my arms, another chance to make things right with the worlds that had so suddenly and violently been parted? How long had I wanted to whisper apologies to something that wasn't open air or my own hideous reflection?

"I'm sorry." I murmured into his skin. I saw my breath fog in the cool night air, and marveled at how warm I felt despite the chill around me. Was it his hot, slick, oozing blood keeping me warm – or was it something else entirely? "I'm just _so damn sorry_."

I started to get up. The moment was wonderful and heart wrenchingly, tangibly real – but the blood seeping into my military uniform did little to encourage my staying. We're in an _alley_, my mind insisted. And it's dark and wet and dirty – he probably already has an infection. I was the bastard he always told me I was just for keeping him here this long.

And then he spoke.

I froze – literally fucking _froze _in my uncomfortable crouch, halfway between kneeling and standing up entirely.

"A-Alph –," he started, but he broke off coughing, and blood flecked his lips with each haggard exhale.

He thought I was his goddamn brother.

"No Fullmetal, it's me," I tried, hopefully. Slowly, so slowly, he cracked one golden eye, perhaps to see who exactly "me" was. Had he forgotten me in the years he'd been away? I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood at that thought. _I didn't forget you._

"Colonel?" It was weak, and he sounded vaguely surprised.

"Were you expecting Price Charming?" I flashed a weak, sarcastic grin, but it seemed my attempts at cleverness were lost entirely on him. He had one thing on his mind.

"W-where's my brother? Is he alive? Is he al– " Again, he stopped, coughed, and shining droplets of blood rained on my lapel.

Internal bleeding? No good.

"He's alright, Fullmetal. You did it." I smiled a genuine smile as I saw his reaction to those three simple words.

You did it. You fixed your brother. You made it home. You let the weight of the world slip off your shoulders. You finally, finally got exactly what you'd been hoping, dreaming, sweating, bleeding for all these years. Congratulations. I'm only sorry that I couldn't be a part of it.

And with that last selfish, horrible, monstrous thought – my smile wavered.

"Tell me – " Again, he broke off in a rough, hacking cough, and it was almost too much for me to bear. Stupid. STUPID! Get him to a hospital. I stood suddenly, and perhaps it was the sudden change in stance, the all-too-fast increase in the amount of space between him and the ground, but Edward groaned softly and clutched my blood-soaked uniform.

"Shh. I'm taking care of everything. You'll see your little brother soon." And he would, if I had anything to do with it. I might have been stripped of all my power and resources when I was stripped of my military position, but I still had connections, people in high places who trusted me, and the cunning to get things like this done. His brother would be found, and his brother would be on a train to Central by this time tomorrow. If I could give him nothing else, I would give him that.

I started out of the alley that I had found him in. It was wonderful coincidence, perhaps, that I had chosen this particular pub to drink myself out of my mind at tonight. It was a incredible coincidence that this was the alley he chose to fall in, bloodstained and broken. It was a terrible coincidence that today was October third, and only earlier that day I had stared at that watch engraving and thought of this golden child. And it was a stupid, stupid coincidence that I had gone staggering blindly into this alley minutes earlier, drunk out of my mind and groping for the gold that so closely resembled Edward's hair only to find out that that was exactly what it _was_.

I'm not sure what I was expecting when I took him into my arms – a thank you, perhaps. Probably something more. I shouldn't have been so disappointed when he was only interested in his brother's welfare, and not my own. We had never been close enough, I suppose. But I cared for him, more than he knew. I cared for him and loved him so damn much, and perhaps I was just a tad too disappointed to find that he didn't feel the same. His brother came first, I knew. His brother would always come first. But...but was some sort of recognition too much to ask?

"Colonel? You saw him?" He interrupted my thoughts. He was weak – losing blood, losing consciousness. I would prolong this moment as much as I could before he slipped away and I lost him forever to those who he loved in return. I would prolong **_my_** precious moment as long as I possibly (_selfishly_) could.

"Yes. He came to me to ask about you not too long ago." I replied and was proud that my voice never wavered.

"He...he...What did you think of him?" He said breathlessly. His tone was expectant, childishly so and...nervous? As if...

"He was beautiful."

As if...

"Did I...Did I do well?"

As if he was seeking my approval?

"Edward," I began thickly, my throat clogged with emotion. He wanted my opinion? He wanted to know what I thought about the most dear, most precious thing to him? Edward didn't openly express love...but...but...this was just about as close as he got. Edward always had, for lack of a better term, loved through his little brother.

It was a moment before I realized that he was still gazing at me expectantly through heavy-lidded eyes, fighting off fatigue until he received the answer he seemed to want – _need _– so much.

"Amazing." I managed to stutter, before I realized that didn't really answer the question and tried again. "You did _so, so well._" He nodded, smiled softly, looked more content than I had ever seen him in all our years together.

I walked on into the rain.

* * *

Revieeeeeeeeew? I mean like...PLEASE? I'm getting so close to 100 I can **taste** it. And when I do get to 100, there will be sweet, sweet rewards for the readers. :D I love you all.

**My genius idea for chapter ten**:

Maybe if each of you make a request of some sort, anything really, in your review, I will make a moderately long drabble for each of you who bothered and compile them to be my chapter 10. WOULDN'T THAT JUST ROCK? I would love to do that! I would lovelovelove working with all those requests. My brain is oozing bunnies at the thought of it. And since it would all be together, you guys would be guaranteed to get your request on my next update (which should be super fast, because I'm on SPRING BREAK!). -squeeeeees-

_**YESSS! LEAVE A REQUEST IN YOUR REVIEW!**_

And do it fast! That would make a very nice, special chapter 10. :3 And I would really love writing it.

So please – REVIEW! REQUEST! I'll begin work as soon as I get my first review.


	10. Thank You Reviewers!

**LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, BOYS AND GIRLS, I PRESENT TO YOU THE DRABBLE COLLECTION THAT KICKED MY FRIKKEN ASS!**

That's right everyone, I DIDN'T FORGET ABOUT YOU! I'm not about to leave my loyal, loyal reviewers hanging. I just had some things going on. DX

For one, I had AP Tests, which consumed my life for about a week. SUCKED ME DRY LIKE A LEECH, THEY DID!

Then, my grandfather passed away (T.T), and I was alone in my house with my mom for three weeks while my dad took care of my grandma alllllll the way in Oklahoma.

THEN...well...school in general is just a paaaaaaain. Friend troubles, homework procrastination, MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF HOMEWORK TO PROCRASTINATE, finals – all of it has been hitting me the last few months. BUT NOW SCHOOL IS OUT! -dances in glee-

I worked on these drabble slowly but surely. One was done the DAY AFTER I got the request, and one was done about an hour ago (SEE IF YOU CAN TELL WHICH ONE IS WHICH?) XD I'll give you individual comments on your stories, too.

**WARNING**: Most of these are bad. But I did try.

**DOUBLE WARNING**: WHY OH WHY CAN I NOT WRITE ANYTHING WITHOUT EDWARD ANGSTING? HE'S MENTIONED (AND ANGSTING) IN ALMOST **EVERY SINGLE** DRABBLE.

I think I have a disease.

Is there a shot for this sort of thing?

If anyone knows of a good doctor, point me in the right direction.

**LAXGirl** - you have a habit of making the most detailed requests. So I'm working on your's, deary. Just...separately. In non-drabble form. -cackle- Oh. You'll see.

To anyone who doesn't have a drabble and requested one...

**I'M SORRY! **Tell me right away, and it will be in the next chapter.

Anyway, I think we should be on to the drabbles.

Non-yaoi! Non-yuri! Family friendly and work safe! XD

Spoilers indicated on each!

I sincerely hope that you enjoy.

* * *

**I request Havoc! **

**For: Child of a Pineapple**

_Title: Average_

_Spoilers: No_

_Enjoy this. I know I enjoyed your reviews._

Jean Havoc had always been second best.

Growing up, he had an average family, lived in an average town, did an average job in school, and dated all the average girls. The ones, he always joked, that had been thoroughly picked over. The ones whose cheeks didn't dimple quite the way he liked, and whose curves resembled either a fence post or a beach ball.

And so this average lifestyle continued well into his adult life. He attended a nice, normal college, and though he developed a handsome face with rather attractive features, he never had been able to fetch the ladies the way he liked. As was a constant for him, there was always someone better. Always some better human specimen to impress them. _Always._

So he resigned himself to being second best, to a life where he wasn't quite the scum, or the lowest of low, and yet he could never quite attain the pinnacle. No matter how he tried, he was never the best, and Jean came to accept that. Such was his fate.

Joining the army was the best thing that ever happened to him, he always said. In the military, everyone was scum. All soldiers were dirt, and Havoc was just one spec among them – a grain of sand that no one really stopped to consider or distinguish. In fact, Jean rather liked being referred to by number or by rank. None of his commanding officers knew that he was doomed to normalcy. Hell, he could have been the best in his class, he could have dated the prettiest girl in high school – he have been _someone special_ and they wouldn't have treated him differently than any other poor sap with a meager amount of stars on his shoulder and a noticeable absence of colorful badges on his chest.

And years later, when he went to war and his average blood was spilled on an average patch of ground, when an average bullet ripped through his average chest, he wasn't saved. He was, after all, nothing special.

So he died. On an average day, in fair weather – one of those days where it was cloudy, overcast, and gloomy – but never quite enough to make rain. And he had a standard funeral, military issue, with a standard flag draped over his coffin and an average number of people in attendance.

Poor boy, they said.

So young.

And then topics turned to the war that was ripping the country apart, to the new government and the new parliament and political discussions that really had no place at a funeral. But after all, they really didn't have much else to discuss. Jean Havoc's funeral was filled with people who never really knew him, with military officers who felt obligated to attend because he had once served under them, or they had seen his name somewhere on a list of recruits or promotions or latrine duty. And what did they know – a group of military officers who inhabited a world of numbers and ranks? Generalities. Achievements that had made the print of a newspaper – and Jean Havoc had none of those.

It would be later that evening that a real party took place, honoring the average man that was Jean Havoc in a way that he would have appreciated. Mustang and crew were in attendance, along with those who knew him best. It was an average bar, with average drinks, and an average waitress who Mustang, had he been in good spirits that evening, wouldn't have flirted with anyway because her cheeks didn't dimple in just the way he liked and because her figure rather resembled a fence post.

And they drank average drinks that were flat and cheap but made them blissfully drunk all the same. They made average toasts to a man who had always been second best.

And while it was just an average meeting, honoring an average man, attendants wept all the same.

* * *

**Anything with more brotherly luff would be fantastic!**

**For: Sera and Tails**

_Title: Birthday Call (please excuse my lame titles, I'm making these up as I go along)_

_Spoilers: No_

_You were a little late, but don't worry. :3 I had fun writing this one. Thanks for all the awesome reviews. I appreciate you._

"Hello?"

"Hey there birthday boy."

"Niisan!" Al breathed into the reciever, overjoyed to hear his brother on the other end of the line, relieved to hear his voice, excited...excited until he remembered... "...You...you missed my party."

"Al," Edward sounded slightly breathless and paused between some words to pant a little, breath coming ragged and unsteady. Alphonse could vaguely hear a chorus of rather noisy background sounds behind the soothing static of his brother's voice. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to tell you how sorry I am." Alphonse was happy, so happy to hear his brother's voice, at least. And Edward did sound _so _apologetic...and he _had_ called, after all. Maybe he could let it slide, just this once?

No, Al decided, lowering his new eyebrows so that they shadowed his golden-grey eyes. Edward had gotten away with far too many things in his lifetime, and this was one crime that would not go unpunished. He didn't want his brother getting cocky, after all.

"I made a cake. I made a really good cake, and I wanted to share it with _you._" It sounded so, so pathetic, Al realized as soon as it left his mouth and echoed into the receiver. But Edward was a sucker for that kind of thing – coming from his little brother, at least. And really, it wasn't even what Al said that had that devastating impact on his brother – it was the tone of voice that he used, Al knew. His brother had spent so long interpreting Al's emotions through voice alone that he had gotten rather good at it – really, "rather good" was insulting. His brother knew every simper, whimper, and whine better than Alphonse himself, which made phone conversations aggravating, at best.

The statement had the desired effect, anyway. Edward broke down into a string of apologies that came far too quickly to comprehend. Alphonse felt himself softening, and it took another glance at Edward's seat at the dining table, place still set with a festive plate and napkin, to steel his resolve.

Enough of this sissy stuff, Alphonse had some real damage to do. He yanked his ace from the pile. "It was my first birthday cake in my new body. My first party...you _missed_ it, Niisan. You were supposed to be here to share it with me." Alphonse whined expertly, teetering gracefully on the edge of tears. Ed let out a strangled sob on the other end of the line and burst into a renewed round of feverish apologies. Alphonse heard something about "next year, next year will be the best ever, Al," followed closely by assurances that he had the best present in the world – "took half this month's salary but damn it all, Al, I just know you'll love it."

"Why – why did you miss it, Ed?"

There was a long moment of hesitation, and Alphonse could hear a loud beeping noise coming from somewhere far off with the absence of his brother's voice.

"It was my fault. Missed the train. Overslept." He said carelessly.

"Niisan," Al chided, annoyed by Ed's sudden passive attitude and positively furious that his sixteenth birthday party was ruined for something so trivial. "You missed it because you were being _lazy_?" Al felt his teeth grinding, and he despised that grating sound and feeling on his new teeth. But Alphonse knew, these types of situations called for such things.

"I'm so, so, _so _sorry. How can I - _ah - _e-ever make it up to you?" Alphonse opened his mouth to tell his brother that he could get his ass on a train right _now _and make it home by midnight, but the incessant beeping suddenly grew louder and more frantic, and Alphonse felt his brow lower again, this time, in puzzlement.

"Niisan, what –?" The line went dead.

It would take six more angry phone calls for Alphonse to find out that the first thing Edward Elric had asked for upon being admitted to a hospital in Central, bleeding from two fresh bullet wounds and dizzy from blood loss, was not the medical attention he urgently needed, but a phone.

Alphonse felt like an ass all the way to Central.

**

* * *

**

**I would love love love a drabble involving someone (Al or Winry - or both) taking care of Ed as he rests away the pain after automail repairs.**_  
_**For: Aemilia Rose**

_Title: Attached_

_Spoilers: No_

_Here you go, sweet thang. :3 Luffyou. This one was fun to write._

The moon cast an eerie glow over the brilliant, gleaming automail, and when the curtains rustled just so over Edward's bedside, that same shaft of life traced the contours of his face, contorted in agony and partially covered by a stark white cloth. Alphonse shifted the cloth again and again, trying in vain to make his brother more comfortable.

Edward's unconscious mantra indicated that he was cold, so very cold, but the fire Al could feel burning under the skin of his forehead indicated differently. The conflicting signals were confusing, and Al told his ailing brother as much as he tried to chafe warmth into an automail fist, balled tightly under the onslaught of pain.

_I want to help you Niisan._

_I want to help you, but I don't know _how.

It was then that Winry (_like a guardian angel!_) stepped inside, panting and sweating as if she had run all the way to their home from her own.

She probably had.

"What's wrong?" She whispered, hardly daring to breath as her eyes flew over Edward's shaking form. "What happened to him?"

Alphonse bit his lip, and moved again to fumble with the cloth resting over Edward's eyes. "I don't know...I...he..." Alphonse panicked, felt warm tears catch in his eye lashes. "He won't wake up."

Before he could stumble through another awkward sentence, Winry's voice was there again, washing over him, enveloping him like a warm, soothing cloud of steam. "Shh, shh. Tell me what happened, and I can help. I can't help him until you tell me."

"I reattached his automail about four hours ago, but he shouldn't be hurting like this anymore. He shouldn't have a fever... I've reattached it a million times before, I don't know what could have gone wrong this time!" Alphonse's voice had gone shrill in panic, and Winry moved to soothe him.

"It's alright Al. It's fine. Sometimes...sometimes this happens. Sometimes, the only thing you can do is help him and be glad he's sleeping through it." She gave a comforting smile, knowing very well that it was difficult for Al to understand the extent to which the automail pained his brother, even more difficult for him to understand that there were variables that affected the machinery even _she _couldn't explain – but oh God did he _try_. "We don't have to panic unless his fever doesn't break by morning."

"...Oh." Al's face seemed to crumple, and he began smoothing the wrinkle's on Edward's bed sheets, determinedly looking anywhere but Winry's eyes.

A tense silence then overtook them both, broken only by soft little hitches in Edward's breathing and the occasional sniffle from Alphonse that Winry tried to ignore.

"So...so what do you think was different about this time?" Winry welcomed the conversation with open arms.

Machinery. She could explain that.

"It's probably the fact the Edward's growing. Changing muscles and all that. Everything in his body is trying to readjust to that port, because it isn't growing with him. We might have to..."

"What? Have to what?" Al insisted.

"Take it out, and replace it with a larger one when this growth spurt ends." Winry responded reluctantly. If nothing else, Al knew the pain of automail installation. He had been close enough the first time to hear his brother's moaning and screaming through the thick, sturdy walls of the Rockbell home.

"...Oh." Again, Al looked as if she had just struck him across the face, and Winry suddenly got a taste of how Ed must feel all the time.

Damnit all, Al had a face that could make you feel _guilty_.

"Al, please. Don't look like that; it's not your fault. You know Ed would never want you to think that."

"But I _prom_ – " And then Ed was moaning softly, weakly pushing at the cloth over his forehead and insisting that he was _freezing _to death, Al, close the damn window. That demanded Al's attention, as always, and Winry was spared a guilt-ridden tirade, if only for a moment.

"Niisan, there's no window open." Al replied smoothly, voice low and devoid of any of the panic Winry knew he must be feeling. In the beginning, it had been hard for Al to regain his ability to speak, but as time went on, Ed began complaining that his brother had a damn slippery tongue. It seemed he hadn't been lying. "Do you want something?"

Ed seemed to mouth something then, and Winry would never had been able to make it out, would have had to ask him to repeat himself, please. But Al, beautiful, loving Al sprang to his feet with a quick, "I'll get you some, Niisan." What Winry didn't know was how much practice they had in this particular area, how many times Edward had been bedridden with only Alphonse to tend to him. Alphonse had gotten used to reading Edward's lips then, because as handy as armor was for fighting and sparring, having no ears made it awfully hard to pick up on soft, sickly whispers.

He returned a moment later with a glass of water and a tiny white tablet Winry recognized as a pain killer that she herself had prescribed to Edward for the awful pains he got in the winter. Alphonse saw her eyeing the pill, and put a finger to his lips.

Ah. Yes. She had forgotten how much Ed hated taking medications.

"Niisan, can you sit up?" He couldn't, as it turned out. As valiantly as he tried, his arm was still feeling too heavy, still tugging at the tender flesh on his shoulder, and he couldn't manage to lift his tired body more than a few inches off of the bed.

"That's all right. Don't strain yourself." Al put his hand at the base of his brother's skull and tilted it up, then lifted the glass, motioning to Winry to take to the pill off the night stand and put it in his brother's mouth while he was still drinking.

She did, and Al made sure he had swallowed it before placing Ed's head on the pillow again. "Better?"

"Mmmm." Edward said with an exhale, almost instantly feeling the effects of the medication's sleep-inducing properties.

Not much later, he drifted into a troubled sleep. He jerked and twitched in the throes of some nameless nightmare, unable to toss and turn as he usually did for the incredible weight his automail had suddenly gained.

Alphonse stayed loyally at the bedside of his only older brother, Winry hovering anxiously behind them, and the sun found them there when it peaked the horizon hours later.

* * *

**Kill Ed! Bloody is the best! Sickness second!**

**For: Flashlight Maniac**

_Title: Following Orders_

_Spoilers: Nein_

_T.T I can't believe I just killed Ed!_

Everyone near him was urging Edward not to. To hold on. To keep his eyes open for just a moment longer, and they would get him the help he needed.

But that confused Ed. He most certainly didn't need help like they all said. He was warm, his thoughts were hazy, and he really only wanted to welcome creeping tendrils of unconsciousness that were so urgently beckoning him.

Alphonse was there – warm and human and alive, which put a goofy grin on Ed's face every time he looked in Al's direction and made him want to close his eyes all the more if only to stop himself looking stupid.

But every time his lids drew together and remained that way for a fraction of a second longer than it took to blink, her heard Al's firm reprimand, and once, when Ed had been stubborn and let his eyes remain blissfully closed against the brightness of the world, his brother had grown panicked and frantic, had bodily pried Edward's eyelids apart. Edward had tried not to close them after that.

Hawkeye was there. She was quiet and it looked like she was hurting somehow. She did not tell him to keep his eyes open like his little brother did, which he pointed out to Alphonse once. Al let out a low, husky bark of a laugh, which didn't really seem like a laugh at all, and told his brother to rest. He needed his strength.

Edward wondered how on earth he was supposed to rest if he couldn't even close his eyes, but he was tired, and he couldn't quite find it in him to argue.

Havoc was there. He still had that vaguely smoky smell hovering about him, (even though the ever-present cigarette was uncharacteristically absent) and it made Edward want to throw up all over the cold, hard ground he was resting on. That was odd, though, Ed thought. Granny Pinako had always had a pipe between her teeth, and Edward recalled almost liking the bittersweet aroma it had filled the room with as a child.

But now, he felt the overwhelming urge to vomit. He could feel bile – bile and blood? – rising up the back of this throat, and he moved his left arm to his stomach to indicate as much to his little brother only to find the source of all the distress buried deep in his soft, white belly.

He gently probed the edge of the wound, which brought forth a swell of sticky, red blood. It didn't hurt, not really, but it did make his hand warm, and that was nice. Ed wondered again what all the fuss was about. He felt ready to get up and move, but here was Havoc and Hawkeye and his brother, keeping him on the cold, hard, uncomfortable ground. He honestly didn't hurt. He was just tired, and a little bit angry that his brother wouldn't just let him sleep – that was all.

Mustang was there. He quickly recaptured the hand he had lost to Ed's exploration moments earlier and chafed the numbness away, though his silent gesture didn't bring as much warmth as the now-congealed blood on his hand had.

Mustang started mumbling to him about everything and nothing, a constant litany that Ed was only half listening to. But, he was thankful for it, and said as much, urging the Colonel to continue, because the babble was soothing and Mustang's had such a lovely, warm, honey-coated tone that pulled Edward closer to the sleep that he so desired take him.

Edward looked around once more – Roy smiled softly, Hawkeye's chin trembled, Havoc looked simply miserable, and Alphonse was sobbing freely now into his beautiful human hands. Edward felt his eyes closing, and he wasn't sure that he would be able to stop them from doing so this time if his brother asked him to.

He didn't, and Edward was profoundly grateful for the Colonel's voice croaking out a weary, "Let him sleep, Alphonse," as he drew his lids completely shut.

It was alright, after all. Mustang had told him it was alright to sleep, and Edward had always been good at following the Colonel's orders.

So he did.

* * *

**I'm an Envy fangirl. Anything you'd like to write about him I'd read with avid delight.  
For: wilderness-writer**

_Title: Memories (-gags at my own putrid names-)_

_Spoilers: JA! If you don't know who Envy's mommy and daddy ish._

_Hmm. Not too fond of this one. Probably because Edward isn't dying anywhere in it...But I sure hope you like it!_

Envy wanted to remember.

Certainly, he hadn't really had any desire to do so before Lust had confided in him that she had memories of a time before. She had told him in an outburst of sheer_ intensity _– not emotion, they didn't have those – nearly a week before. Envy was sure that she hadn't meant to do it, but it was obvious that she wanted to tell someone, and really, who else was there to tell?

Perhaps she had thought that he would understand, confide in her that he had the same secret thoughts and almost-feelings. So, in an explosion of pent-up nearly-emotions, she told him that she saw a man in her mind, and she thought that she loved him – but that wasn't very possible now, was it? She said it confused her, it terrified her – and yet she found herself treasuring these not-memories and reveling in the near-human sensation it gave her.

Envy smirked and set his jaw – then spent a good five minutes taunting the very idea and sneering at her. And it was funny at the time – the scowl that she gave him. Her eyes, if only for a moment, flashed with some unidentifiable burn, and Envy wondered vaguely what that was. But it didn't really concern him until later that night when, gazing across an empty field somewhere near Dublith, in the form of some nameless farmer whose blood painted the ground beneath his feet, Envy decided that _he _wanted memories too.

Wasn't that in his nature after all? To seek what other's had? If Lust had these emotions, these memories, Envy wanted them as well. He suddenly found himself trying to recall things he hadn't even known existed.

But his earliest recollection was him, as he was now. Well, not _precisely _as he was now. Then, he was a naive pile of muscles and twisted, dripping organs that cared only for the life force the glorious red stones supplied him with. He remembered the odd sensation of his twisted body reforming itself into something familiar as he gazed into a face that was...that was...

Envy's eyes widened as several images flashed before his eyes in quick succession. He didn't know what they meant, had no idea where they had come from. And he wondered if this was how Lust felt all the time, now. Confused and disoriented and in pain but not – feeling a tug on heart strings that didn't exist.

Suddenly, uncharacteristically, Envy found himself not caring that Lust had something he did not. He just wanted these familiar images to stop. He wanted this string of pseudo-emotions to end. For a moment, he lost concentration for the array of images his mind's eye put before him, and he felt his shape changing before he thought to change it.

And suddenly, he was a little boy with chubby fists and pink cheeks, round and short and _adorable_. He wondered, at first, if this was someone he had killed recently – if the new emotions he was feeling had set off some kind of guilt reaction. But then he saw another pale and faded image, and in it, he saw the child – and in the child he saw _himself_.

This was him, he realized.

This was him as what he once was, before love had made him into a monster. The images began anew, and before he knew it, he was on the ground, chubby fists clenched in short blonde hair as he screamed for the pictures of a caring mother and beaming father to stop, to fucking STOP already because he couldn't take it anymore.

He knew all of these people, these caring loving people – but he _didn't_. They had different faces now, different priorities. His mother smelled like ash rather than cinnamon, and he very much doubted that his father would claim him as his own now, much less try to resurrect him. Things were different now. They would not go back to the way they were.

Envy straightened, and then transformed again into a young man, around the age Edward was now, with golden hair and golden eyes, and a charming smile.

_This was who I could have been, _Envy told himself. This was the man he could have become. He lingered above a rippling puddle for a long moment, studying his reflection.

Abruptly, the foot near the edge of the pool became bare and Envy turned, wiping the images from his mind and realizing that he did not envy Lust one bit.

* * *

**Um...Edward kinda sorta comforting Roy at Maes's grave?**

**For: Lurkinshdws**

_Title: Misery Loves Company_

_Spoilers: Episode 25_

_Teehee! I like this one! I managed Mustangst AND Ed!Angst in equal amounts. GO ME!_

Roy was vaguely surprised that he wasn't drunk out of his mind, yet. By all things logical, he should have been. There was an awfully tempting jug of vodka behind _Thiros' Treatise of Alchemic Composition _on a top shelf in his library, and he could almost feel the cool glass of the gin bottle under his bed. There was one beneath the desk at the office that he had managed to keep from Riza, as well. The temptations were absolutely _everywhere_. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to pick one up on Maes' birthday.

Being sober on a day like this turned out to be harder than Roy once surmised. Little pieces of their past littered his apartment, his office, his neighborhood. There was where they met – young, stupid, fresh-faced recruits – there was where Maes caught him with a pistol to his throat in the gutter, there was where Maes announced his marriage to _the most beautiful women in the world Roy – and her name is Gracia, isn't that lovely?_, there was where he donned a stuffy tuxedo and listened to their vows, there was where he found out he would have a little niece or nephew, that he would be murderer, Lieutenant Colonel and now _Uncle_ Roy.

There was the house where they had built their life – and there, there was the phone booth where it had ended. It would have been so easy to forget it all in one swig of lukewarm, bitter liquid. So easy.

_Well if it's so fucking easy why haven't I done it yet?_

This day always found him at the familiar stone, now covered in tendrils of creeping ivy and moss that he couldn't quite bring himself to brush off.

The tiny paper flowers that littered the ground and a broken teacup at the base of the stone indicated that Elysia and Gracia had been there earlier that day, in the daylight, when it was appropriate to visit a memorial. Two o'clock in the morning was hardly a good time, that much was indicated by the smouldering mass of a gate Roy had made when he entered. (It had been locked, and that simply wouldn't do. Roy was late enough for his best friend's birthday party, anyway.)

Roy gently set a cake atop the mound of earth along with a little gift wrapped in bright orange paper that reminded him a bit of flames in the glimmer of moonlight. Roy became painfully aware of his sobriety for the second time that night as he felt a solitary tear run down his cheek and off his face, eventually coming to rest on the tiny "Maes" scrawled across the top of the cake in cheery, pink frosting.

"Hey." Suddenly, there was a silhouette framed in moonlight before him, and Roy vaguely wondered how he had not heard him approaching. There was only one person who could make that shadow – lithe, slim, graceful – _petite_. He hadn't grown an inch since he lost his second arm to the gate two years, three months, seventeen days ago.

Not like Roy was counting.

But it was hard not to hear him coming now. He clanked every other step he took, and his arms whined and creaked with each fluid motion of his body. Sometimes Roy found himself questioning the validity of Edward's military name, and he always concluded that each passing year increased the truth in it.

"Fullmetal." He heard a brief grunt of consent. "How did you find me?"

He gave a weak smile, canines glinting in the dim glow, before responding. "I think everyone in town could have seen the explosion if they had been awake." The grin faded. "Lucky for you, I was– " _having a nightmare _"– finishing a book, so I – " _couldn't sleep _"– was awake."

"I see. And what – " _happened in this one?_ "– was it about?"

"Not much. It was just a bunch of – " _clawing, grasping, little figures – reaching for me_ "– shit."

"And are you – " _alright?_ "– going to return it? I'd like to–" _help you. let me help you. _"–read it for myself."

"Why? It's not–" _your place, I'm helping _you_ tonight, damnit_ "– very good."

Roy paused before finishing their carefully encrypted conversation with a downcast glance a few cautious words. "We could– " _help each other _"–go over it together."

Edward wordlessly closed the distance between them and wrapped Roy in a tight hug. This was something distinctly Fullmetal. No one else could be so warm and cold, hard and soft at the same time. Roy knew, subconsciously, that there were automail arms underneath the soft sleeves of his red jacket, and that they shouldn't, by any stretch of the imagination be comforting, heavy and awkward things as they were. But somehow, Roy found the warmth he needed in those arms. "I'd like that, Mustang."

Roy sniffled pathetically into Fullmetal's shoulder and waited another moment before gathering the courage to push the boy away and face the cold, hard grave again. "Happy Birthday, Maes," he whispered.

Edward mumbled his agreement, sank to the ground, clapped his hands together and placed them to the earth before the grave. In a flash of blue light, the gift, cup, flowers, and cake were consumed by liquid earth before it once again solidified around the tidy, flag-draped coffin.

"Shall we visit Alphonse on the way out, Fullmetal?" Edward gave a weak smile as they set out toward the civilian section of the cemetery – a much more friendly, well-loved area, bedecked in angels, flowers, and photographs of the deceased.

"Yes." He whispered, barely audible above cold February wind. "I think he would appreciate that."

* * *

**Would it be a bit too much to ask for another Roy-centric based ficc?**

**For: Roy-Fan-33**

_Title: 1) Cloth Shield 2) Blood Money (-giggles- Now I'm just TRYING to make the names terrible.)_

_Spoilers: Ishbal stuff...so...not really. WHY ARE YOU EVEN READING THIS IF YOU DON'T KNOW ABOUT ISHBAL?_

_Not too much to ask at all! This was originally one drabble, but I split it into two because it worked better._ _Enjoy dearest. :3 You're lucky I wrote them after all those yaoi comments...;D_ _Say hi to Maes for me._

I was always able to take comfort in the fact that _at least I didn't kill them with my bare hands_. I suppose it was some sick trip I took around the guilt that I so deserved, a way to convince myself that killing wasn't really as simple as I made it seem. It was so easy to convince myself that since I hadn't killed with my bare hands, I had retained some semblance of the innocence I possessed before that damn war began. My hands had always been carefully hidden away beneath itchy layers of ignition cloth, beneath a deadly array and a carefully embroidered fire salamander. My hands, I thought, were always clean, so long as that thin cloth shield was there to keep the blood out.

I knew, subconsciously, that killing wasn't easy. I knew that each charred corpse I added to the growing piles of dead would be buried with another tiny, irretrievable sliver of my soul. I knew that; I knew so well that as the body count rose and the death statistics continued to gain zeroes, I could almost feel the bits of my soul being ripped away, as if the soul was something tangible. But through it all, I was able to retain some measure of sanity, clinging to my desperate mantra of _your hands are still clean_.

The reality of war didn't hit the first time I killed, didn't hit as the death toll rose and kept rising – indeed, reality didn't really knock me straight in the chest until I felt the violent recoil of a dirty revolver and heard the dull thunk of two innocent bodies falling to a wooden floor.

I never touched them, never came close to the bodies, but the gloves were gone – _the gloves were **gone**_, and with it had gone my innocence. I never came near to the steadily crawling puddle of blood, but I saw it stain my hands. My shield was gone, my mantra suddenly worthless, and the combined loss left me painfully vulnerable to an onslaught of mental anguish, which my tortured mind readily accepted as some form of punishment for my sins.

I would only don my gloves, my shield again much later, when I had overcome the images that surfaced every time I tried to take a human life – of two doctors with the portrait of a little girl clutched tightly in their hands. Only this time, I didn't wear them as a shield for my own innocence – I had none left. Rather, I wore them as a shield for the little girl in the photograph, for the fresh-faced soldiers making a game of the battlefield, for Hughes and for Marcoh.

For the innocent.

For the naive.

For anyone in this world who could still see some good in their existence.

For everything I once was and would never, never be again.

Really, it was the least I could do.

----

Sometimes, the new recruits, the ones that hadn't seen action yet, went back onto the battlefield and counted. How many did Mustang kill today? What about Armstrong and Kimblee?

Flame could kill more than Crimson and Strong Arm _combined_, one said as they carelessly picked through the piles of dead, looking for those who were charred beyond recognition. Looking for "Mustang's kills" – my kills. I often wondered why they spoke of it as if it was something to be proud of.

I could only cringe as they reported a startling figure, as the stupid, stupid soldier collected the money he had won with my name and gloated that voting Mustang was _always _a sure thing.

Later, I might see that soldier on the battlefield, lying lifeless in a puddle of his own blood, trusted weapon and lifeline sitting loose in his open hand, money from the earlier pot slowly being dyed a vivid crimson in the front pocket of his uniform, right where the bullet pierced his heart. This was the reality of war that he hadn't seen before.

On one occasion, the poor kid was still breathing when I found him – but he was dying and he begged for release. So I was his angel of mercy.

And as I walked away from another blackened body, skin still sizzling and bubbling, I was able to think bitterly that he would become another one of Mustang's kills in tomorrow's games. Maybe this one body would turn the betting tide for some poor soldier tomorrow. Maybe I would make a man a few dollars richer, a little bit happier before he died in this pointless war, too.

Somehow, that thought didn't comfort me any.

* * *

**Something involving Riza and Black Hayate please!**  
**For: Henrika**

_Title: Suitors_

_Spoilers: Ja. :3 Roy gets a demotion! Oh noes!_

_You scared me DX I thought you stopped writing for my fandom. I almost didn't write this out of spite. ;D But it's okay, because this is a terrible, terrible piece of crap. I hate this. I HATE THIS SO MUCH. I wrote this during a writing slump, so if you hate it as much as I do, please ask for a replacement. Love you._

He is Riza's best friend, her truest friend, her constant companion. He is her knight in shining armor and her shoulder cry on. He is a source of comfort in difficult times and a kind, loving soul.

He loves her.

She loves him.

It would, Riza ponders, be the perfect relationship, if the person in question were a person at all.

It is a few weeks after Edward returned to Amestris, scarred and limping but relatively unscathed, that Riza decides life is calm enough to go in search of another man for her life, one that is more than a foot tall and not covered in fur. Because as much as she loves Black Hayate, her apartment is cold sometimes and night, and her bed always seems incredibly empty of the late. She wants someone to spend the rest of her life with, as funny as it sounds to the men in the office, because dammit all if she doesn't enjoy being treated like a _lady_ sometimes.

So she looks. It isn't hard to get a few lookers; after all, Riza always has been an attractive woman. She is rather shapely the rough, baggy military uniform is replaced by something feminine and silky, and she can be downright gorgeous when she chooses to wear her hair down. It could have been much, much easier if Riza hadn't chosen to let Black Hayate be involved in the search, as well.

Her reasoning is simple. He has been the only man in her life for so long, and he would continue being in her life for some time to come. It only seems fit that he help to make the decision.

But Riza soon discovers that Black Hayate was one persnickety mutt, and he tends to express his ideas about people in a more physical sense because he lacks the ability to do so in words.

Thus far in her quest, four men had been pounced, three bitten, and one fellow was chased three blocks and then up a tree. She almost feels sorry for them.

But she trusts her dog's judgement, knows that dog's have heightened senses and can perceive things that most humans can't even dream of. And sure enough, the suitor who had been in her neighbor's tree a week ago shows up in her office on rape charges.

Riza gives Black Hayate a big, juicy steak that night.

She had almost given up on her search, had almost resigned herself to living in an empty apartment and sleeping in an empty bed for the rest of her life, until one clear evening when and unexpected visitor, one who she had not seen since his demotion to a private, shows up at her door, smirking in some sort of hidden humor and asking to come in.

She looks to her companion, sleeping soundly on a mat by the heater and snoring contentedly before returning the smile, recalling that she never heard a peep out of her dog in Roy Mustang's office.

She invites him inside, and decides to wait to tell Roy how good Black Hayate is with children.

* * *

**brotherly love is loved as well. i think that will be my request XD. YOU ARE LOVED DEARLY BY ME. **

**For: X-dArkAngEL**_  
Title: Hidden Strength_

_Spoilers: Yes. For...kinda the movie?_

_Mmmm. :3 Brotherly love! Thanks for all your kind comments. -luff-_

Al couldn't find it in himself to believe that the heap of skin, bones, and brown fabric that rested in his lap was his brother – couldn't find it in himself to truly grasp that his brother was alive at all. Certainly, he had told people all these years that yes, of course his brother was alive, and he would search every inch of Amestris, as many times as it took, to find him. But now, as he stroked his brother's silky blond hair, listened to the shallow scratch of his breathing, and felt the bony curvature of his emaciated frame, he realized that he never really believed that his brother was alive at all.

But he _had_ hoped. He had hoped so very much that he was blinded by the sheer force of his own will – hoped so much that his mind had, of its own accord, formulated an imaginative world in which his brother was alive, sipping coffee at the breakfast table or smirking at the foolishness of one scientist as he read a book on the Rockbell's sofa. And so many times had this pleasant image replayed in his mind's eye, that he actually began to _believe_ it, seek it, dare to think that it was more than just a mere fantasy.

For three years he searched.

For three years, he found _nothing_. And he had almost given up hope – had almost convinced himself that the empty casket marked by Edward Elric's gravestone might actually be empty because they hadn't found the body and not because there was no body to be found.

And yet here was his brother, whole and alive in his arms. Trembling, wheezing, and feverish but _alive_. It was almost too much for Al to bear; he felt hot tears leaking down his cheeks before he could stop them.

But, Al admonished himself, wiping the first of many tears away, even if this was his brother, they weren't out of the woods yet. There was _something _wrong with him – the way that his breath rattled in shallow gasps, his unnaturally thin frame, the way his skin burned beneath Al's fingertips all indicated that his brother wasn't well, and something needed to be done – fast.

He quickly realized that he wasn't going to be able to carry his brother. Thin as Ed was, Al just wasn't _strong_ enough, godammit. Plus, he couldn't risk doing any more damage to his brother's fragile and broken body. New tears of frustration trickled down his cheeks. He wasn't strong enough to help his only brother when he needed it most.

Stop it, Al. Get a hold of yourself. Your brother _needs_ you.

He looked in the direction of Granny Pinako's house. Thirty minutes by foot...even if he crafted some sort of sled and put his brother in it, dragged him to safety and medical attention, would he be fast enough? This situation was far too familiar, though a memory-less Alphonse had no idea why. He just _felt _as if this situation, under far different circumstances, had taken place some time ago.

No matter. No time for dwelling on lost memories now.

Al bit his lip and cradled his brother's head in his hands, shuddering slightly when he saw the prominence of Edward's cheek and jaw bones in the hollow, sunken, pale face. So many questions...so many questions making themselves known in Al's mind, but the still form in his arms did little to offer a response.

"Niisan..." Al refused to acknowledge that his voice caught with a sob as he uttered the familiar term that he hadn't used in so, so long.

Al had heard it said that men can do great things when someone that they love is in danger – that a mother could lift an incredible weight off her child, that a father can brave the current of a raging river to bring his son to safety.

Alphonse was thirty minutes away from the Rockbell's.

Sprinting there, with his brother on his back, he made it in fifteen.

* * *

**I would like to see Winry and Al in it, please!**

**For: GundamWingFanatic90**

_Title: Cold (I AM SO FREAKING CREATIVE!)_

_Spoilers: Nooope._

_Mmmm. I didn't think I would like this one, but I do. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do, dearest._

On Sunday, Niisan got a cold. He woke up sniffling and sneezing, and just before I was shooed out of the room, he was starting to look a bit green around the gills. Granny told me that his immune system wasn't what it used to be, since he lost his arm and leg, and it would be easier for him to get sick, now.

She also told me to stay out of the room.

At first, I was reluctant, because Niisan had cried for me so _desperately _in the beginning, when the wounds were still gaping, open, red things. But he was getting better now, and he didn't cry quite so often, so I left him alone, just like Granny told me. Just like a good boy.

On Monday, I ghosted from room to room, hovering nervously around the house because I was still reluctant to leave my brother's side. At least in the house I could hear him if he said my name, if he asked for me. It was my duty to be there for my one and only big brother. But he didn't cry for me, Granny assured me. He was sleeping for most of the day, Al. It's alright.

On Tuesday, I was bored enough to venture out the door and into the beautiful spring morning. It was hard at first – being in the sun and not feeling warm, crawling in the grass and not smelling its freshness. Winry came out to tell me that Edward was glad to see me outdoors enjoying myself. That made me feel more than a little guilty, and there was an uncomfortable twinge in my chest that, when I thought about it, wasn't entirely possible. So I went inside, because it didn't seem fair that I got to play outside when Niisan was lying sick as a dog in bed.

On Wednesday, I tried with all my heart to stay by my brother's side. Granny finally let me into the room, told me to feed Edward if I was going to be so damn stubborn about it. But it seemed Granny hadn't been lying – all that he did was _sleep_. After about two hours, there was a tap on my shoulder that I heard rather than felt, and I turned around to see Winry there tugging at my gauntlet and urging me toward the door.

_Come on Al._

_It can't be very interesting watching that idiot sleep the day away, now can it?_

Sure enough, she was right. It was boring as hell – not that that was Niisan's fault, of course.

So we went outside again. It was different now that Winry was there, more like the old days now that I heard her clear, lovely voice over the dark insights of my consciousness. So we laughed and played in her front yard – tag and hide and seek and all that. I stumbled a lot, and it was always rather hard for me to find a place to hide, but we managed. And when the day was coming to a close and we were watching the sun set over the fence by the road to town, it was easy to imagine Ed was there, too – easy to imagine that I could feel her tiny hands clinging to my leather gauntlet.

On Thursday, I was the one who shook Winry awake. I was the one who insisted that we needed to go outside and play, because I was getting cabin fever. Winry was happy to oblige, and we left with a shopping bag and bouquet after she checked in on a grumpy, feverish Niisan and an exhausted, snappy Granny. She gave us the task of gathering bandages and medicine from the town pharmacist and fruits and vegetables from the town greengrocer.

We raced to town, even though I picked her up halfway there and neither of us won. And on the way back, we took the bouquet to the cemetery and split the flowers evenly among our three lost loved ones.

By Friday, I was beginning to enjoy this time with Winry – perhaps a bit too much. As children, Niisan and I had always been competitive about Winry's attention, and here she was devoting it all to _me_. Niisan, had he been in any condition to do so, would have been incredibly jealous.

We played outside again, and I basked in the attention she gave me. I could have sworn I felt a blush spreading over my face when she told me that I didn't trip so much now, and I hadn't broken anything lately – when she told me that she was proud of the progress I was making.

The sun had never made me feel so warm.

And that night, when Niisan asked me what I had been up to, I stumbled through an explanation that wasn't terribly articulate – I didn't want to make him feel too terrible about being confined to a bed all the time – but he didn't seem to understand me much anyway, and poor Niisan fell asleep halfway through my stammered account of the afternoon.

On Saturday, it rained, so we couldn't go outside. Winry made me hot cocoa I couldn't drink but thanked her for all the same, and we talked. She told me that Niisan would be better soon, and they could start surgery by next week.

I pretended to act happy for him, but I was jealous.

Niisan would have Winry's attention again, just like he had in the day's after the incident, and I would be down one playmate. Maybe Winry had learned to read my strange new body language, maybe my emotions were just easy to see, but Winry looked at me in that way she looked at a broken piece of machinery – brow furrowed in concern and lip quivering ominously.

_What's wrong? You can tell me._

I didn't ever voice my concerns, just shook my head with a squeak and looked into the roaring hearth. But she was persistent, determined to get something out of me whatever it took, and she was crawling into my lap, looking incredibly tiny, before I could tell her not to. She whispered something into my shoulder that didn't quite make it to my not-ears, and then looked up, eyes filled with tears, lips moving in some silent apology before she laid a kiss in the center of my helmet, right where a nose should have been.

Before she fell asleep in my arms, I heard her whisper that I was warm.

I knew, deep down, that it was the fault of the fire which warmed my metal skin, but I was flattered and pleased and excited to hear it all the same.

I didn't bother trying to sleep that night. I was too busy listening to the beat of her heart, echoing beautifully in the steel confines of my body.

Sunday morning, Winry woke early, complaining of an ache in her neck. Niisan came to breakfast at the table, staggering and swaying slightly on his makeshift prosthetic. Niisan was better, Granny announced, and they could begin surgery as soon as tomorrow.

Winry shined her tools and sterilized the equipment, while Granny prepared the operating room, and Ed squirmed restlessly on the couch in the den.

I just did my best to stay out of everyone's way.

Sunday night came, and even though I shouldn't have been able to, what with no mind to sustain these fanciful images and no sleep to grant them, I had dreams of Winry.

On Monday, I played outside alone, with only my memories to keep me company.

* * *

Well, there you have it. "The Drabble Collection that Kicked My Frikken Ass." I do hope you enjoyed it.

AND I DO HOPE YOU REVIEW.

"Hope" meaning "if you don't, I'm never writing for you guys again because this series took FOREVER."

I worked hard on it.

FOR YOU GUYS.

Because I love my reviewers. And really, you deserve my love...BECAUSE omg119 REVIEWS? FO-SERIOUS? I am so excited. Let's aim for...150 this time! Naw. That's shooting a little high, eh? But it's a nice goal, I think. :3

I had better see a review from everyone I wrote a drabble for.

And...well...can maybe...someone...write something for me? -blushes- I would appreciate one. I get no requests. DX And I've been working on requests for other peeps for a long time, and I would really like to have one for myself.

**You would be pimped and loved and cherished forever.**

Please. Consider it.

...REEEEEEEEEEVIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

I love you all, and thanks for reading.


	11. Touch

So.

I was thinking. Doing some math. Looking at some reviews. I concluded with my awesome math skills, gained through years of grueling and intense schooling, that 154 minus 119 is 35.

And then I passed out, I think, because everything got a little hazy after that.

But uh...all I have to say to you cool cats is **I LOVE YOU!** Your reviews make me feel happy and loved and give me the courage to live my life from day to day. T.T

Well. The last one was stretching it a bit, but you get the picture.

So then, I did a word count on the reviews I received for chapter 10...yeah I'm not sure why either. Probably the same reason I write fanfiction. But I came up with startling figure. Because BY GOD not only are there LOTS of reviews, BUT THEY ACTUALLY HAVE **SUBSTANCE**!

Official Review Wordcount for Chapter Ten (including all emotes/repeated words/fangirly exclamations): 2265

I think that's actually longer than chapter one. Well, needless to say, I was excited. So I guess what I'm trying to say is, the response to chapter 10 was extremely humbling and I'm glad everyone enjoyed those drabbles.

I'd like to take a moment for some shameless pimping.

**Rockpaperscissor** dedicated a chapter in her amazing story, **"Array of Sacrifice" **to me.

**Aemilia Rose** dedicated a chapter in her awesome series of oneshots, **"Lessons in Pride in Care" **to me.

W**ilderness-writer** dedicated her awesomely angsty oneshot, **"Undone" **to me.

**Child of a Pineapple **dedicated her super schweet hurt!Ed oneshot **"Camaraderie" **to me and wooed me with flattery. ;D

These people are gods. These stories are their words, sent to their humble followers on Earth. Read these words. Worship them. Devour them. I DEMAND IT!

I'd like to say thank you to these awesome peeps o' mine. Because HOLY WOW I never expected to get four stories. I'm more flattered than words can say and I enjoyed all of your stories SO SO SO much. I tried to return the favor by leaving incredibly long crack-filled reviews, which I hope you all enjoyed. :3

I would also like to apologize to **rockpaperscissor **who left me a very nice review reply and then a very nice PM, to which I didn't respond. I read it, realized that it was four in the morning, then I went to bed. During the night I formulated numerous evil plots for her drabble request, but I simply forgot to respond. So I would just like to say that your drabble is coming in the next chapter, along with **Talamut**'ssimply AWESOME request (I adore that idea, dearest) and **embeer2004**'s request. :3 I hope I satisfy you all.

And just tell me if I forgot about you. DX Because if I did I'm sorry. (I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN ABOUT YOU YET **LAXGIRL**! It's just...I got stuck on your story. DX!)

Teehee. One last thanks to **Child of a Pineapple** (aka, the dictator of my fanclub XD aka MEIN FUHRER! -salute-) who recommended me to her little sister, which please me to no end. XD!

ANYWAY! This is getting really long. Sorry about that kids. On to the main event!

**There are end of series spoilers ahead.**

There is SAP and ANGST like whoa ahead.

Just thought I ought to warn you.

Enjoy!

* * *

They missed their boat. 

Hohenheim, usually such a placid and calm man, was absolutely furious. Edward could see his father's brow twitching ominously, his fingers tapping a steady staccato against his tidy dress pants, and he marveled at the familiarity of it all. This was him; this was him in the colonel's office awaiting a mission assignment, this was him at the canteen standing in line to be served, this was him squeezing into a stuffy tuxedo before the company Christmas ball – this was _him_, and it surprised Edward that he could have so much of a man he'd seen so little of running through his veins.

"Hey, bastard...didn't that ship – " Edward started from across the dock, eyes fixed not on his father, but on the beach far below.

"I'm well aware of what was on the ship, Edward," his father responded harshly. Immediately, his eyes softened, as if he regretted what he had said, but he did not move to reassure Edward by touch.

No matter.

He never did, anyway.

At that point, a sour ticket man with a pinched face, thin mustache, and irritatingly nasally voice (Ed frantically searched his mind for a name to go with the face, because he knew the man, godammit) emerged from the hut at the end of the dock. His father approached him and looked ready to crack, or yell, or cry...or something. Ed didn't quite have the bastard figured, yet.

Edward really hoped that Hohenheim would be yelling, because he wanted desperately for someone else to be on the receiving end of the man's wrath. He'd had quite enough of it thankyouverymuch during the endless, frustrating hospital stay.

But it wasn't to be. He could faintly hear his father's deep, rumbling voice explaining, calmly as you please, that he had called ahead from the hospital – that there had been some trouble with Edward's release, but he needed the boat held. It did, after all, have all of their worldly possessions nestled snugly in hull.

Plus, his father added, sounding extremely pained, he had a sick son, and they needed to be out of the chill and on the boat before it had a chance to get any worse.

At that point, Hohenheim glanced pointedly at Edward and quirked an eyebrow toward the attendant. Edward, surprised but pleased all the same at what a sneaky, sneaky bastard his father was being, took the cue and put his all into his most pathetic cough, weak and wet and guttural sounding that made several people on the dock flinch and inch away. He had been sick before, but now he was relatively healthy. Aside from the fact that he was missing two limbs, his immune system was shot to hell, and he was weaker than he had been since he was eleven, he was healthy. Edward could almost imagine his little brother chiding him now _(you shouldn't do that to people Niisan!)_, and decided quite suddenly that Alphonse did not take after their father, and he was incredibly glad. While Edward would have done anything to be on a boat and away from this miserable city sooner, he wouldn't have wanted his little brother picking up on deceiving habits like that.

The thought made Edward incredibly sad.

The attendant, meanwhile, was taking stock of Edward on the other end of the dock – surreptitiously studying the boy before him through cold slanted eyes.

"Was the child caught in an air raid?" He asked quietly. Apparently the dock man was more concerned with his empty sleeve than the (_incredibly convincing_) cough. Hohenheim paused before nodding slowly and the man looked to Edward for confirmation.

Edward knew the story that he was supposed to tell – he was caught up in a blast and his limbs were amputated. Ed hated that story, because it undermined everything that mattered to him. More importantly, it removed the most important person in his life, as if he had never existed at all.

_No! _He wanted to scream. _I gave these limbs up for the people I love more than anything in the world!_

But instead, he mumbled a defeated, "Yeah," and it was the hardest thing in the world to force the words out. "Yeah, that's what happened." His father knew how hard it was for Edward, but he remained steadfast before the dock attendant, looking at Edward like he wanted to help, but couldn't move his legs to do so.

The attendant's lips quirked, and because of the familiar expression, Edward was finally able to identify the man as Lieutenant Yoki's alter. However, this man must have been blessed with more remorse than Yoki, because he gave Edward a sympathetic look then, and called ahead to the ship that had just left with everything they ever owned (_here_) on board, asking them to hold the boat in France, even as another dock worker that Edward didn't recognize reserved them a place on the next boat, that he assured was coming in a little over an hour.

And all the attention because Edward was a goddamn cripple.

Torn between being pleased or pissed, Edward's gaze turned again to the beach. He was tired of people springing to attention for him; he was tired of people looking at him like he was going to shatter. He would get prosthetics as soon as they reached Munich, and he would be on his feet again in absolutely no time at all. Then, he would come back to London and _dance _right in front of everyone who had tried to spoon feed him in that godforsaken hospital, in front of that doctor who had kept him bedridden and hospitalized for seven miserable months, and in front of this dock attendant, who Edward decided he just didn't like at all.

Hohenheim turned abruptly, having finished the conversation while Edward was lost in thought, apparently. He tucked the blanket securely around Edward's thighs, and with firm hands on the worn wooden handles of Ed's wheelchair, the two started off down the dock. The day must have been wearing on his father, Edward noted. He looked tired and frustrated. Edward, honestly, couldn't imagine why. Today was a great day. Today was the day that he got out of the hospital. Today was the first time in seven months that he was engulfed by the cool air, and quite frankly, it was intoxicating. Certainly, the hospital had windows that they opened when it suited them, but the joy of this total immersion was mind-numbing and tangible and _real_ and he didn't want it to stop, not yet.

That decision made, it was an easy task to remove his sole hand from the confines of the heavy blanket, and reach down to give the hand brake a good hard tug –

– which propelled his father straight into the back of his head.

"You could have just told me that you wanted to stop, Edward," his father reprimanded softly, tone thick with exhaustion.

"You wouldn't have listened," Edward pouted. "I want to go down there." And he gestured the beach below with a bob of his head.

Hohenheim smiled and touched his son's hair tentatively, barely fingering the soft golden mane as he checked for bruising or blood. Finding none, he recoiled immediately, and Edward scowled at that. His father was supposed to understand. His father, a genius by all rights, should know that Edward's outbursts and temper flares were just a mask he put up in the place of his desires. Al had known it, Winry had known it – hell, _Mustang_ had known it. And here was his father, the very man who had given him life, flinching away from his insults and cruel quips, listening to everything he said and following his commands _exactly as he heard them_.

Stupid bastard.

"I'm sorry, Ed, but you're in no condition to visit a beach. It's too cold and you're still very ill."

_"I'm sorry. I can't touch you. I'll hurt you."_

In the hospital, Ed had done a lot of things – said a lot of things – he came to regret. "Stay the hell away from me," had been one. He had called his old man whatever names he could come up with in a half-conscious state of mind. He had fought like a tiger and sworn like a sailor until some nameless nurse had to come and fucking _sedate_ him just to stop his shouting. He initially thought, maybe, words like this had jaded his father into not wanting to touch him. But his father wasn't _dense_. He had to know that when his son was lying sick and hurting in a stark white hospital ward, surrounded by unfamiliar people and environments that looked anything but kind, sorely missing his family and friends, all that Edward wanted, image be damned, was a fucking _hug_.

Hell, maybe a hug was even asking too much. If he couldn't have that, a gentle hand around his own before he went into surgery for the last time, a wide, cool palm smoothing his hair back and calming his fever, hell, a _finger_ wiping a tear of anguish away was all he had wanted, all that he had needed. Just something to show him that his father was really there for his son, really there because he wanted to be. Just something to show him that his father _cared_.

"I'm not going to break, you know," Edward said hoarsely.

"I know you're not, Edward." Ed very much doubted that he did. "I just worry, sometimes." All that Edward's prompt merited him was an awkward pat on the head as his father reached down to release the brake.

But Edward would have none of that. He swatted Hohenheim's hand away, best as he was able. Maybe there was something he didn't know that was making his father feel this way. Something about their initial encounter here – about when he was a child? Regardless, Ed would weasel it out of him.

Preferably, he would do it on that beach, because that sand would feel damn good in his toes.

"Edward," his father said, doing his best to sound firm and fatherly. "We need to get you inside. Alright?" He easily overpowered his weakened son and reached down to pull the brake.

Again, Edward resisted, this time taking a more extreme measure. He had an idea that would, no doubt, get him two of the things he wanted desperately in one fell swoop.

Just as his father released the brake, he leaned over the armrest of the chair to the opposite side, taking advantage of the lack of sturdiness on the chair's behalf and the lack of attention on his father's. The change in weight sent the chair toppling and sent Edward sprawling on the end of the dock, right where wood met hard concrete. That, at least, had been a part of the plan.

Now, when Edward constructed his brilliant plan, he failed to consider two things. The first was his arm socket, which was healed for the most part and didn't hurt on a regular basis like it had. It only hurt when you, say – slammed it into the pavement. Upon impact, Ed was seeing little white stars. The second thing was HELL – it was COLD! And without the piles of blankets, he was shivering before he hit the ground.

Well.

At least it got his father's attention.

"Edward!" Once his vision stopped blurring around the edges, he was able to recognize his father hovering over him, as if he was unsure of what to do. Around him, the throngs of bustling civilians stopped to stare, and Edward recognized mumbles and whispers about his arm and his leg, about the fact that his dad had yet to pick him up off the cold dock.

"Well," Edward hissed. "What the hell are you waiting for? I can't get up on my own." And that, unbeknownst to Hohenheim, was precisely the idea.

However, Ed noted distantly, the people were yet another unexpected (and unwelcome) element. He could handle pain. Pain was a friend of his – familiar, even. And cold – cold was no stranger either. But the people gathered around, _looking_ at him – scrutinizing and judging in a way that they had no right to were frightening. Edward had never felt more self-conscious.

_I'm not a cripple!_

"I – I – yes...yes alright," his father rumbled awkwardly, righting the chair and then leaning over to gather Edward into his arms. "Tell...tell me if I hurt you." He had no right to sound so goddamn scared.

"Please," Edward pleaded, surprised by the desperation in his voice – wishing that for once, his father would be his pillar of strength.

_So many people..._

Hohenheim took his sweet time stooping to the ground, and when he did, it seemed he was unsure of what to _do_. Edward marveled again at his father's utter stupidity, wondered how they could be so similar and so amazingly different, and finally lost all control of his temper, shouting, "PICK ME UP, YOU BASTARD!" to Hohenheim.

Apparently, his father listened to him for once in his miserable life, because before he felt hands under his knees and back, he was in the air. Hit with a wave of vertigo, Edward clutched desperately at the pale dress shirt with a single hand, buried his face into that broad chest and smelled decay. His father must have sensed his distress in his two shaking limbs, because he was parting the crowd with a crisp command and holding Edward close.

_Yes_. This was _right_.

This was the comfort he needed, this was precisely what he had been seeking all along. Edward was mumbling things that he didn't mean before he could stop himself, harsh things that he always tended to say when he had nothing else. But there were warm tears leaking down his cheeks, and they betrayed him.

"Edward," his father whispered, shaking him slightly. Hohenheim moved to place the boy in his chair, no doubt afraid again, but Edward howled when his back touched the hard wooden support, and Hohenheim quickly lifted him once more, afraid to break contact now that he saw how distressed it made his son.

But this was still terribly awkward for the father, holding his son so close, touching his son at all. Humans were such fragile creatures, and Edward had been hurt too many times, already. Hohenheim had every right to be afraid. But he wouldn't – couldn't – let his son go, not now. "Edward," he repeated softly. Edward only made a peculiar keening noise, that sounded very much like he was in pain, and Hohenheim panicked, suddenly very desperate to please. "Let's go down to the beach. We could watch the sunset. Isn't that what you wanted, hmm?" And Ed sniffled, nodded slowly.

So Hohenheim, disbelieving, found himself picking his way down to the sand, tediously careful with the boy in his arms. Edward hadn't calmed down yet, which was odd. He knew his son wasn't by any means shy. But something had upset him, this time.

Edward, however, was incredibly conflicted. So many emotions bombarded him at once, and he felt vaguely as if he were being torn apart at the seams. Happiness for the warmth of his father's arms, hurt and frustration for his own damn uselessness, humiliation, pain, plus a sort of dread he had been feeling ever since arriving in this world all mixed together into emotional fucking turmoil, and it was all he could do not to sob into the arms of a man he suddenly couldn't remember hating.

In short, neither had any idea what to do, what to think. It was maddening and new, because neither had been up against the unknown and shaken in the face of it before.

It seemed they had found their match in one another.

"H-hey, D-da-bastard?" Edward inquired softly, mind returning to his original goal, even though his resolve to find his father's reason for hesitation was weakening, because he was holding him now, wasn't he? And he must...he must have reasons of his own. Edward wasn't the only one with a painful past.

Hohenheim gave a "hmm" in return, rocked Edward back and forth awkwardly in his arms, still aiming to sooth. The beach, at least, seemed to be working.

"I...was wondering..." A pause.

_He's holding me now, isn't he?_

"Well...Nevermind." Hohenheim looked at him for a moment, then smiled and sat cross-legged in the sand. He placed his son gently in his lap, facing the freezing murky depths of the English Channel. Edward toed the sand silently as his father knuckled his cheek fondly, and whispered, "Watch the sunset, Edward."

It was a bittersweet, unprecedented moment of mutual understanding.

They had missed their boat, and as Edward reveled in the comfort of his father's arms, happy and warm and content, knowing only the beach and the sunset and the gentle rhythm of the waves in time with his father's steady heart – he was extremely glad they did.

* * *

Teehee. Ohhohoho. I'm so tricky. 

I bet you thought I forgot about you, didn't you **Ellen Tee**?

HARHARHAR! I DIDN'T!

**Don't stop reading here, folks! Thar be a drabble ahead!**

This is for **Ellen Tee**, who is an amazing, incredible, faithful reviewer. And...I...I...T.T This isn't easy for me to say...

I SKIPPED OVER HER DRABBLE IN THE LAST CHAPTER! -sob- And I am sorry forever and ever. She then left me a very specific request which I hope that I filled well.

Ellen Tee – I love you. I'm sorry. Here is your drabble dearest, I hope it doesn't let you down.

* * *

_Title: All I Ask_

_Spoilers: Nope!_

Edward never asked Mustang to care.

He never asked the bastard to come to Rizenbul on a cold, rainy night – to fish him out of despair and plant him firmly on two feet with hope in his heart and dream to pursue. He never asked Mustang to take him under his wing, to protect him. Ed never asked him to give them a chance they didn't deserve.

The bastard did that on his own.

He never asked Mustang to worry about him – to go pale every time he tromped into the office injured, to drown himself in alcohol every time he wound up in a hospital bed. He never asked for the Colonel to be his goddamn _father_.

That was his own doing, as well.

Despite everything he had said, Ed never wanted anything bad to happen to the Colonel because of him. Too many people had been hurt that way. No, he didn't want Mustang to become involved in his troubles, or to concern himself with a goal that wasn't his own.

But stubborn, pigheaded Mustang took it upon himself to do just that.

And later, Ed most certainly never asked the Colonel to catch him crying; he never meant for Mustang to listen to his desperate whines and wipe his tear-smudged face. He never asked him to listen, to acknowledge – to comfort. Edward never asked him to have a shoulder to cry on.

But despite all that, the bastard was there for him.

And days ago, when Mustang was mere hours away from a promotion and transfer, Edward never asked him to leave the office and charge into the street, gloves flying and teeth flashing in a ferocious offense against the homunculi. He never asked Mustang to fight alongside him as an equal, to turn the tide in a battle where the outlook had looked bleak mere moments before. He never asked him to exert himself with attack after attack, to smirk that smug-ass smirk and trick the world into thinking everything was going fine.

But Mustang did anyway.

He never asked Mustang to protect him from a homunculus that Mustang knew neither could defeat, to steal the attention of said homunculus and fight and fight and fight until one of them ended up dead. He never asked Mustang to get so tired and careless defending him that he didn't see that last move coming. Henever asked the bastard to wind up face down a puddle of his own blood.

He never asked Mustang to die for him.

The bastard just _did_ it.

So why did Edward feel guilty? Mustang's death was his own fault because, damn it all – he never asked the man to _care_. That idiot bought his own fucking ticket to hell.

Nevertheless, Edward donned a stuffy tuxedo the next day.

Mustang never asked him to cry at his funeral.

Edward did that all on his own.

* * *

:3 Thanks for reading everyone, and sorry for the late update. 

Someone told me that me that my begging for reviews was annoying...but uh...I'm a review whore, so I'm going to say it anyway.

**REVIEW!** Please! Reviews make me happy. I made my 150 review goal last chapter! Maybe we I can get to like...180? 190? 200? THE SKY IS THE LIMIT!

Anyway. I think I talk too much. -luffs you all- Expect an update soon, and happy Fourth of July!


	12. Innocent

Hello again everyone!

Did you see how fast I updated? Because...WHOA! Super fast update-age.

That is partly the fault of **rockpaperscissor** who inspired me with her request:

_I would like a story where Ed and Al met after however long (your choice) and the meeting didn't turn out as Al expected, or hoped. This can range from Ed losing his memory, to... just about anything else. _

HARHARHAR! Well, let's just say that I took the "just about anything else" route, and this, my friends, is the result. It started out a drabble...but then I decided :3 I COULD WRITE SO MUCH MORE! And I did.

SO. In conclusion, this request is for **rockpaperscissor**. I've owed you this for quite some time deary, I really hope that you enjoy it. Oh...and uh...there's paternal Roy in here too. Just not...-twitch- Well. You'll see I guess.

I still owe drabbles/chapters to the following:

**Talamut**

**Embeer2004**

and poor, poor **LAXGirl **whose story died and needs to be restarted desperately. -apologizes profusely-

I would like to give one giant thank you to my amazing new beta (AND HOMIE -luff-) **Aemilia Rose**. When I volunteered to beta for her, I never expected to get an AMAZING beta in return. -whispers- I'm getting the better end of the deal because not only do I get corrections that I actually use and appreciate, I get to read her AMAZING STORIES IN ADVANCE.

In fact. I'm reading one now. :3 BUT YOU CAN'T! Harharharharharharhar! Bitchplz. :3

Anyway, everyone give love to **Aemilia Rose **because her input is amazing and this story is better because of it.

Oh. And everyone go read her stuff and giver her endless love because of how fast she beta'd this. I meant to get it up last night, but I failed miserably because was being dumb. Then I meant to get it up earlier today but it was omgHOT here, and I ended up getting dehydrated and puking when I was go-kart racing with my friends. D: NOT COOL! Anyway. Thank you.

I still talk too much. So on to the fic.

**This is a divergent future from episode 43.** In case you have trouble piecing it all together, Ed used stone!Al to bring Al back to his body, and this story happens from there.

Enjoy!

* * *

This was no place for his Niisan.

This filthy hole in the ground, with oppressive barred windows and suffocating cement walls, with floors speckled with blood and grime and an odor of the unwashed that permeated the air was simply not where his Niisan should be.

True, he couldn't quite recall the Niisan that everyone else knew – couldn't recall the last five years of his life at _all _– but he remembered his brother, more than anyone in Central gave him credit for. Nobody seemed to realize that there had been at least ten years of bonding between them before they ever met Colonel Mustang, before they ever tried to bring their mother back to life and failed. And while he didn't know the Niisan that had been to hell and back again with a grin on his face, he knew _his _Niisan, and he knew that prison was not at all where he belonged.

Central's high security correctional facility lay on the outskirts of town, on a road that nobody talked about, on a street that wasn't often traveled. Al had lived in Central the last six years of his life and remembered living there the last two. He must have passed by the crossroads at least a thousand times on his way to headquarters and back, constantly pestering Colonel Hawkeye for leads and stories and photographs.

It took Alphonse all the self-restraint he had to not just _kick_ himself when he thought about how many times he had passed his brother on that road, in that jail, right in Central, when he was so desperately looking for him all over the country of Amestris. That, truly, was irony at its finest.

Al followed along silently behind the guard, trying not to imagine his brother behind those bars, his brother in those shackles, his brother wearing the ugly, plain suit that so drastically betrayed his personality. Most of all, he tried not to imagine his brother's beautiful eyes turned hard and uncaring and dull, like everyone else's – guards and prisoners alike – had seemed to in this horrible place.

It was hard for Alphonse to walk these halls, because it seemed ridiculous to him that one should be so scared of a building. But he could imagine that the walls and floors and ceilings were paved with misery and sorrow, with freedom lost and nothing gained. Certainly, they were paved with retribution as well, because many of these people deserved to be here. But then there were people like his brother, who were falsely accused and falsely imprisoned, who had their names tainted by a crime they didn't commit – their souls tainted by the incredible sadness that wept through the walls and seeped through the skin.

His brother had done nothing wrong.

The guard seemed to lead him through an endless maze of twisting corridors and iron-clad doors. He didn't speak to Alphonse. Perhaps it was the nature of Edward's crimes that kept him silent. When the guard finally did speak, just after they stepped into a more narrow corridor where the air was stale and the ceiling leaked little green rivulets down the walls, it affirmed Alphonse's assumptions. Edward was on death row – he was a dangerous and hated criminal, imprisoned for the murder of thousands in Liore. Because of that, because of how utterly dangerous his brother was mad out to be, it was only natural that people would get scared.

Alphonse thought of his brother, licking an ice cream cone and arguing with Winry over the superiority of chocolate to vanilla, and laughed a little.

Scared indeed.

"He's never had a visitor before. He's not 'sposed to you know. No one knows that he's here. And with what the papers say, I don't know why anyone would want to visit him," the guard choked out, and clasped his gun a little tighter. "He's a maniac, he is."

_"No one except Mustang knew, you mean,"_ Alphonse thought sadly.

"...No?" Alphonse mused. "Well, working here, you must have heard that his case is being reopened? Very soon now he'll have more visitors, I'm sure." The guard only winced.

Alphonse could perfectly recall the exchange from a few days ago. He had been rushed into Colonel Hawkeye's office by First Lieutenant Breda, (indeed, he had never seen the rotund man move quite so quickly) and he had a hopeful feeling in his gut that something good was in store for him, because he knew that if Ms. Hawkeye was bothered enough to send for him across town, in his own hotel room, at nine o'clock in the evening, something serious was bound to have happened. And since he wasn't even in the military, he knew that it must concern the only link between the military world and his own isolated one – Edward.

_"Ah, Alphonse," _she'd said pleasantly, cradling a file in the nook of her arm as if it were something precious. _"We've been expecting you."_

"Well. This is it." And the guard stopped abruptly, stood at attention, and waited, stock still, just before a heavy iron door clad with three heavy locks below a handle that he knew didn't exist on the other side. Alphonse smirked and thought slyly that locks couldn't stop his brother if he didn't want to be stopped. _Walls _couldn't stop his brother if he didn't want to be stopped. One flick of his automail wrist, and this guard would be down for the count.

_"Alphonse. Do you remember how when we first met, I told you that I would put my all in to locating your brother, but...but you might not like it when I finally did?" _Alphonse could remember his heart sinking a little at that.

_"Yes?"_

Minutes passed, and the guard didn't make any indication that he was planning to unlock the door. He just stared intently at the patches of mismatched metal, expertly welded together into a door that was strong, unbreakable – and absolutely _useless _against his Niisan. Really, Alphonse thought, all that this door achieved was giving his brother more raw materials.

_"Well...You're not going to like it."_

_"...What do you mean?" _And then she had tossed him the file.

There were a few more wordless moments. Alphonse finally grew impatient. While before, he had been shuffling silently behind the man, waiting for him to take some kind of action and figuring that if he had waited two years to meet his brother, he could wait a few more minutes, this was simply too much to bear. Alphonse wanted to be with his Niisan _now._

"Well?" Alphonse urged. "Are we going in or aren't we?"

The guard winced slightly before looking in Alphonse's direction, and then slowly took a large ring of keys off of his belt loop, absently fumbling with them. Alphonse knew immediately which keys went with his brother's lock. They were large and gold, just like the lock on the door and just like his brother's eyes. But the guard seemed oblivious, went on mumbling to himself, and passed the gold keys at least twice before Alphonse intervened and, politely as he could muster, pointed out the correct keys on the ring. The guard pouted a bit before conceding to the fact that he was right, even though Alphonse had a sneaking suspicion that the guard was just trying to buy himself time.

"Sir..." Alphonse whispered so as not to startle the poor man. "You don't need to worry. He won't hurt me, so he won't hurt you." The man didn't seem convinced.

"I've never been in here. He's never had a visitor before. I only escort visitors. That's my job." And the guard's knuckles turned white around the gun in his left hand even as his right fumbled with the three golden keys.

_"Prison! That can't be!"_

_"Yes. It seems he was taken right out from under our noses in the chaos of Liore, just before we found you and you were still unconscious. His trial was a big military secret, a mockery of the law, and it seems that Colonel Mustang – he knew about it."_

_"I need to see him!" _Hawkeye had smirked, and something in him had told him that it was familiar.

_"I thought you might say that,"_ and her smirk had broken into a full-fledged grin.

The door swung open with a deep, unremarkable groan to reveal a similarly unremarkable cell, lined with the same mismatched metal. In the half of the cell he could see, bedecked modestly with a toilet, sink, and tiny reading desk that shouldn't have been gathering dust if it was indeed his brother that lived there, he couldn't see his brother. But he knew, even before the door opened completely, that his Niisan would be there – the Niisan that everyone told him about. An unstoppable ball of burning fury – a genius who had returned him to the body of a healthy fifteen year old boy. His Niisan.

_"I found his name in some of Mustang's old files, not too long ago. From there, I was able to piece it together. We're not sure why they want him alive, but I know that he still is, and through some of Mustang's old connections, I've gained permission for a visitor."_

But he wasn't. The door groaned to a halt and the guard stepped inside ahead of him, still trembling a bit with every step. Al looked around, not even attempting to be discreet as he searched for his brother drawing an array or clapping his hands somewhere. It was vaguely surprising that he hadn't yet come bounding out of some shadow. The guard, however, surprised him further by making a beeline for a lump sprawled across the bed in the far corner. He then proceeded to shake the figure roughly, with the gun barrel pointing ominously at the now-squirming lump.

Alphonse had taken another glance at the file then and realized with a start – _"He's...he's on death row?"_

_"Yes. But we're going to help him, Alphonse. Now that the military is under new jurisdiction, we have the authority to reopen his case and give him a fair trial. There's no way they can convict him. I'm almost sure of it." _

_"That's...that's wonderful!"_

_"In the meantime, I think it's only fair that his visitor be you. There is no doubt in my mind he's missed you as much as you've missed him, and I bet he could use some comfort right now." _

"Hey, Elric," he said gruffly, and Alphonse ignored that the man had been whimpering mere moments before. "Visitor."

Alphonse peered warily at the shifting sheets, still glancing around the room for his real brother, because in all his dreams, Edward never, ever slept.

"I hear that they have to sedate him," the guard provided. "Keeps him and the staff sane and out of trouble." Alphonse nodded absently, distracted by the quiet shuffling of sheets on the bed.

And then the sun rose. It didn't seem possible, in a tiny cell with no windows and one dingy lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, but it did. It peeked from beneath the dirty green landscape and its light spread across the room, like nothing he'd ever seen before.

And all that Alphonse wanted to do was run to the sun, to embrace it and make it glow even _brighter_. But when it emerged completely from its hideaway beneath the surface of the Earth, he could see that its light was dim, and he feared going to it, lest he snuff its light forever with his enthusiastic embrace.

And then the impossible happened.

It _spoke_ to him.

"Al...Alphonse?" It was hesitant, soft, almost disbelieving. It was a voice that was scratchy and hoarse with disuse, far, far deeper than Al ever remembered it being, but it was indeed his brother's voice. But, upon looking closer at the figure drowning in a sea of bed sheets, Al realized that the voice seemed to be the only thing familiar to him.

This simply wasn't the brother he imagined.

This couldn't be his Niisan.

It _couldn't_.

"Alphonse?" The voice in the impersonator's body came again, more hopeful this time. The guard stepped aside, walked nervously off to the other side of the room to aim his pistol at them both from a more safe distance, and Alphonse saw his brother in full, for the first time in nearly two years (though it seemed like so much longer).

It wasn't the fact that his brother looked so much older that had Al spooked. He had expected that – anticipated it, even. It would be interesting to see the brother in the photographs in person. Plus, he must look older to his brother as well.

But what he hadn't expected was that his brother would look so incredibly – so incredibly _broken_.

Edward was hopelessly thin, and Alphonse wondered vaguely when he had last eaten. His cheekbones were prominent and shadowed the hollows of his cheeks. He was indeed swimming in his gray uniform, and even though what little he could see of Ed's left arm indicated that there had once been rippling muscles covering his wire-thin frame, two years spent in a half-aware state, laying sedated, immobile, and helpless in a prison cell bed had whittled them away to practically nothing.

He was missing an arm. Alphonse knew, logically, that his brother was missing two limbs. He knew that the automail was what gave his Niisan his second name.

But it was one thing to hear about the metal arm and leg and look at pictures in Mrs. Hughes' scrapbook, but it was quite another to see the empty sleeve and concaved bed sheets where a second leg should have been.

His other arm hung uselessly at his side, no doubt another side effect of sedative, because even sitting up seemed a monumental task for his brother. There was no doubt in Al's mind that the drug was meant to hamper Ed's fine motor skills and prevent him from drawing an array.

There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his eyelids seemed unbearably heavy. Even his hair, their mother's golden pride and joy, was limp and greasy, covering his pale, pale – almost _blue _– face like a dirty blanket.

Edward was like a rag doll right now. Alphonse could have knocked him over with a flick of his index finger. He could have _(wanted to) _lift him up and shake him, demand to know what he had done with the _real _Edward, because this weakling _wasn't him._

"Al?" That familiar tone was laced with uncertainty now. Uncertainty...and hurt?

And then Al looked up, looked straight into the depths of those golden orbs, and found there a fire that he hadn't seen in anyone else's since he entered this building. He saw a light that, clouded though it may have been by drugs and misery and loneliness, was still there and burning brightly.

He smiled, reassuringly, and took a step toward his brother, "Yeah, Niisan. It's me." Edward's smile was breathtaking.

"Al, you don't know how much I've missed you. Every day, every goddamn minute I'm awake I think about you, and then I close my eyes, and...and you're in my _dreams_, Al." Edward colored and Al heard his voice growing stronger. "You're the only thing that's kept me alive."

With that, Alphonse felt himself flooded with an overwhelming sense of self-loathing for ever thinking that his brother was weak, for ever doubting that this was his brother at all. Because this boy may not have been perfect, may not have been what he was expecting when he stepped into the cool, steel prison minutes before, but there was an unconditional love in his heart that Al found in his own too after Ed's last statement, and he was ashamed that he ever thought limbs or strength were more important than the pure love that existed between them.

"Niisan, I..." And even after this wonderful enlightenment, he still wasn't able to embrace his Niisan as he properly should. Because Edward was fragile, and Al feared smashing him like the porcelain vase that had sat on their mantlepiece at home, once upon a time.

Edward gave him a hurt look, and Al bit his lip.

"Al, get the hell over here." Edward smiled gently, and all reasonable thought escaped him.

He dove.

And it was a good thing that the guard had retreated to the other side of the room, because nothing could have stood between him and his brother at that point, and Alphonse would have gladly plowed the guard into the ground.

But when he crashed into his brother's chest, buried his head in the dirtied prison uniform, smelled the stale air and terrible odor adorning his brother's person, he felt at home, and he knew that this was where he belonged.

"Niisan," he choked. "I _looked_ for you. Everywhere. All over Amestris. And I hate that you were right here under my nose." Edward didn't move to return the heartfelt embrace, but that was okay, because Al could see his brother was tired and probably not _all there,_ still partially paralyzed by a drug that had robbed him of two years of life. "No one knew you were here."

"Hell, I didn't even know I was in jail for my first three days I was here." Al looked up and saw that his eyes had grown hard, steeled at the thought of his own robbed freedom. "I was a scapegoat, Al. The government wanted someone to blame for the lives of the soldiers in Liore," he whispered. "I guess I was the best available candidate."

The guard across the room snorted at that, and Al threw him the best glare that he could muster.

"I thought it would be public though. I'm surprised...they...they didn't tell anyone? It didn't appear in any of the papers?" Alphonse quieted at that.

"They blamed you, Niisan. They did. All of the deaths in Liore were pinned on you, but the government reported that your whereabouts were unknown." Alphonse grinned a little. "It made searching for you difficult...one mention of your name and everyone closes their shutters."

Edward smirked, "We could clear a room, no problem, eh?" Alphonse muffled a pained choke in Edward's scruffy shirt and Edward took the opportunity to rest his chin atop Al's head, the best he could do to show affection with his somewhat limited mobility.

"Was it terrible for you?" Alphonse whispered.

"Was what terrible?"

That, Alphonse concluded, had to be the world's stupidest question.

"The trial, the imprisonment – everything! I want to know _everything_!"

"Ah...well...from the beginning then. The trial...well, it wasn't really a trial. It was more a...formal gathering of impressive-looking people that I didn't know, sneering at me from pedestals and dooming me to death," Edward recalled.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that alone."

"But I knew that you were human again, Al. That alone put me on cloud nine for the first month I was here." Then something seemed to dawn on his brother. "Plus, I wasn't alone at the trial. Mustang was there." Alphonse stiffened. He knew the name "Mustang" very well, if only from hearing it in Hawkeye's office. They mentioned it occasionally, always smiled when they did, and they had told him countless times that Mustang loved them, would have and did do anything for their well-being. Alphonse had never met the man, but he certainly did admire him. "He came charging into the room and demanded my release. Count on Mustang to know the military's deepest secrets, eh Al?" Alphonse carefully avoided telling his brother that he didn't_ know _Mustang, not really. His brother really didn't need to know that he had lost his memory. That could come later. Al merely bobbed his head once against Edward's chest and tried not to seem guilty.

"But...but why wouldn't he tell you where I was?"

"..."

"He did...he did promise that he was coming back."

"Ah...Niisan..."

"Oh, he was amazing, Al. You would have been so happy to see him defending me like that. I think he was the only one to figure out what really happened, y'know?"

"Niisan, about Mr. Mustang..."

"And right before he left, he gave me a hug..." Edward sighed wistfully. "And he told me everything was going to be fine. Told me to behave myself while he was away."

"Niisan, there's something you should know." Edward sobered and glanced downward as Al maneuvered himself away from Edward's chest at last.

"What is it Al? Is that why you're here? Did Mustang send you?" Alphonse could have cried. Who was he to take away his brother's hope?

"Niisan, the Colonel..." Most unexpectedly, the guard cut in to relieve Alphonse of his burden.

"Colonel Roy Mustang, The Flame Alchemist, was murdered just a week after Major Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, was reported missing in action. Or did no one tell you, Elric?" Alphonse immediately flinched, because this couldn't be the guard that was wincing and terrified moments ago. It quickly became apparent that Alphonse hadn't been the only one surprised by his brother's sorry state. This man had obviously been expecting a raging, thrashing maniac when he came in earlier, and when he found nothing but a tired, lonely, disabled teenager, he had suddenly become a lot more courageous.

What an absolute _coward_.

Alphonse spun on the man and fixed him with an infuriated glare. "This doesn't concern you!"

But the damage was done. Alphonse felt his heart absolutely _break _as his brother's face fell and his smile crumbled. "No. No that can't be. Mustang is fine, isn't he? He'll keep his promise."

"I'm sorry, Niisan, but Colonel Mustang _was _killed. The investigation into his murder closed over a year ago. I was still unconscious from the transmutation when it all happened." He gently touched his brother's scalp and began picking at the knots in his hair, wondering idly of the repercussions involved with punching a guard. Ed meanwhile fell against the wall near the head of his bed, muttering.

"It was my fault, Al. He was only trying to defend me."

Uh-oh.

All of Alphonse's alarms flashed, and he quickly sat again by his brother. He had heard about Edward's overactive guilt complex, about the way he nearly tore himself apart for what he did to Alphonse. Mrs. Hughes had confided in him that Edward convinced himself he was responsible for her husband's death as well, and that he confronted her about it and apologized himself hoarse. It wouldn't do to let Ed get worked up over this.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no Niisan. Please don't do this to yourself."

"It was the government quieting him, and you know it Alphonse – "

"You're not making any – "

"They didn't want anyone else in the military to know that I was here! They didn't want it reaching the higher-ups or the civilians because they knew that it would cause an uproar! Mustang knew more than he should have, and they _killed_ him!"

"Niisan, calm down. Here, have some water." He grabbed for a glass of clear water resting on the iron bedside table and brought it to his brother's lips. Then he tried to placate his brother as best he could, touching his hair and face, running a soothing hand up and down his back. He could feel every rib through the rough fabric. "Won't you please just listen to me? I don't know how much time I have." But Edward was curling in on himself, collapsing onto the bed as if the drug had exhausted him all over again.

"I can't take it...I can't... Won't you stay with me?" He mumbled. "I don't want to be alone again." Damn, how many times could his brother break his heart in one sitting?

"You know I can't do that."

"It's good that I'm here. I can't kill anyone when I'm here." Damn, his brother really was getting drowsy again. Al shot an incriminating glance at the water on the bedside table.

"Edward just try to listen to me. You and I obviously need to have a talk, but right now, I think that all you need to know is that there's a new Fuhrer and your case is going to be made public. Colonel Hawkeye is going to reopen it, and there's no way they can convict you in a proper court, Niisan. There's not enough evidence. Just please...please be on your best behavior." He _really _hoped Edward heard that – especially the last bit.

But Edward closed his eyes and mumbled, "I only used the stone...I didn't _ask _him to kill all those people. I would have stopped him if I could, Al, I would have." And there was no indication that he knew what Alphonse had said.

"Oh, Edward..." He pulled the ugly green sheets to his Niisan's neck and gently laid a kiss on his brother's forehead. "I'll be back for you. Everything is going to be fine."

"Sounds familiar." A yawn. "G'night, Al."

"Goodnight, Niisan." It was a testament of the drug's strength that Edward's breathing changed, evened and shallowed, almost immediately. He couldn't bring himself to leave just yet though, and he toyed with Edward's hair, studied that familiar-but-not face and wished desperately that this conversation could have lasted longer.

There was so much he wanted to know.

But the guard's hand was on his shoulder and he let the himself be led backwards out of the cell, eyes never leaving his brother's sleeping form until the door's great metallic thunk shook him awake and out of that dreamworld.

Before turning to leave, he made his Niisan another silent promise of his return – and just to be sure, he left a little piece of his soul in that cell as collateral.

* * *

YAY! Depressed? Because when I was writing this, even I felt sorry for Ed. And then Aemilia Rose got mad at me because of how incredibly depressing I am. But that's okay, because I like the angst, she likes the angst, YOU LIKE THE ANGST (or you wouldn't have gotten this far) and we're all happy.

A few orders of business:

Does anyone mind that I use "Niisan" rather than brother occasionally? Because, truthfully, I hate pseudo!Japanese in fics, but I see the term Niisan as something of a title for Ed by Al. I think that the use of Niisan rather than brother when the story is from Al's point of view is absolutely ADORABLE. I'm not Japanese, I don't pretend to be, but that is one term that I enjoy using. However, it was pointed out to me that it sounded awkward, and I'm not sure if I want to stop using it or not. Dunno. I like it, but you guys are the ones that have to read my stuff. ;D

And uh...I'd like to take a moment to quote **Child of a Pineapple** here:

"**...REVIEW NOW, OR ELSE EAT DIRT."**  
Teehee. You heard her. I may have taken out the fanclub part (because reading through that, it just makes me sound COCKY! T.T) but the threat still remains. And I probably wouldn't mess with her. -whispers- She sounds dangerous. (-salute- Mein Fuhrer!)

But, all jokes aside, please review. I appreciate the input more than words can say. -luff- Thank you. :D


	13. Drowning

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I would like to introduce to you the winner of the **Webmaster's Choice** and **Reader's Choice (Long)** awards in the Scimitar Smile Green Lion 2006 Competition! X3

is pleased I'm terribly sorry for the INCREDIBLY late update, but school and all that got in the way. Believe it or not, I've had this story written since late July, early August, but because it was entered in the Green Lion competition, I couldn't post it until now. I've had other stories in the works too, so you should expect another update relatively soon. AND I'M SERIOUS. I've got about three stories in the almost-done phase.

There are two people who need to be recognized for their help with this story. The first is **Feyrae **or **The-Artist-Formally-Known-As- InuKratosStan**. She was with me all along, offering encouragement and love and support and she is amazing. :D I love her very much. Everyone else should too.

There are really no words to describe precisely how much this second person has done for me, no way to describe the magnitude of what she has done. **Aemilia Rose** is a goddess. **Aemilia Rose** is a saint. **Aemilia Rose** is my fucking hero, and never let a bad thing be said about her. She dragged me through this contest, I'm a stubborn person, and it wasn't easy. She beta'd her brains out for me. She formatted for me, learned a new technique so she could help me. She worked so hard to be there for me and encourage me and make sure I made it to the end. She is a ray of light, she is more dedicated than anyone I know. She is a constant source of positive vibes and optimism and I love her for that. She is my _friend_. Thank you, Emily. You'll never know how much I appreciate what you've done for me.

On that sappy note for all to read, I give you the sequel to _Innocent_, the last chapter. In the contest, the whole fic was just over 14,000 words and it was titled _The Theory of Immortality. _Each section is labeled with a different step in the scientific method, so you can just pretend the last chapter had "Question" up at the top. :3 This is part two, and part three will be release shortly. I just want to make you guys squirm a little bit before I finish this story off.

This has been my love and my baby for a long time. Please treat it with respect. There are **no pairings.** This is **not yaoi**.

**Please review and tell me what you think.**

**Divergent Future Episode 43**

**Please Enjoy!****_

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Data

Since Alphonse's visit a few days back, the bastard warden had lain off a bit on the sedatives. Perhaps he had finally figured out, two wasted years too late, that Ed _wasn't _stupid enough to try anything, that he didn't _want_ to be in trouble with the state, that he had accomplished his goal and he really didn't _care_ what they did to him at this point _as long as they didn't touch his little brother. _That was all he ever really wanted to begin with.

Since Alphonse's visit a few days back, the bastard warden had lainoff a bit on the sedatives. Perhaps he had finally figured out, two wasted years too late, that Ed stupid enough to try anything, that he didn't to be in trouble with the state, that he had accomplished his goal and he really didn't what they did to him at this point That was all he ever really wanted to begin with. 

Edward wasn't sure if he was pleased with this new development or not. Certainly, he was glad to have more awareness of the world around him. It was wonderful to wake up in the morning – to _truly_ wake up. For two years, waking up had felt rather like drowning; he was floating at the bottom of some deep pool, surrounded by cloying, choking, murky water. It was painful to rise to the surface and the world around him was pressing down _too hard_, so he let himself sink to the bottom and just forget to breathe. But one morning, he rose to the surface, saw the sun, inhaled a deep lungful of air, and it felt _amazing_.

Now that the novelty of wakefulness had spent its worth, however, the stifling boredom and heightened awareness of everything around him set in with a vengeance, and each day found him becoming increasingly restless. The gurgling in his stomach roared to ear-splitting decibels and though they fed him (relatively) regularly, it never seemed to be enough. Somewhere deep in his gut was an angry, pulsing _hunger _that wanted more and more and more, wanted him to eat and never stop eating.

On top of that was the horrible, stifling boredom. One of the guards, he suspected, had lost some sort of relative in Liore and had a special kind of _cruel_ grudge that led him to leave books perched in various places around the cell – places that he knew a vertically challenged eighteen-year-old who happened to be missing a leg could not reach. And it was frustrating to say the least, to have it mere centimeters away from his desperately grasping fingers. It became about ten times more frustrating when he realized that they were watching him, that there were cameras and holes all over his cell that allowed them to see him struggling to reach, slapping his whole body flush against a wall and groping just to acquire some semblance of entertainment.

It had been downright _painful_ when the guard came in later that evening with his dinner, casually removed the book from its perch atop a ventilation duct, and fanned Ed with it, revealing quite decidedly blank pages. Ed hadn't thrown a fit, he merely allowed his dinner plate to slip from his lap and onto the floor that evening, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he watched the guard crouching to clean the mess and griping of a sore back all the while. And that night, Ed convinced himself that that the mind-numbing hunger that didn't allow him sleep was worth it, if only because of the expression on that guard's face as the mashed potatoes sullied his shiny black shoes.

The worst thing by far about Ed's recently rejuvenated state was that he was _seeing _things, that day after day he received visits that weren't possible from people who needn't use the door for their lack of physical...well..._existence_.

Most of the time, it was Roy. That bastard was smarmy and smirky and clever even when Ed dreamed him up, and it hurt Ed to see him waltz through that door so casually every day, not bothering to use the handle (or the _hinges_) to talk to him. It shouldn't have hurt, because the things he said were not painful. Mostly, he was sincere and conversational, asking Ed what he had been doing recently (_nothing, I'm in _jail _you bastard_), what the weather was like (_I haven't seen the sun in two years, jackass_), how Al was doing (_better off without me, I'm sure_). Many times, he talked about himself and that was painful too, because those words were recycled from memories of long ago that he treasured now that they were gone, and hearing them come from this illusion's mouth seemed a bit like desecrating the bastard's grave.

"_I had a date with Grace this evening, Fullmetal. She told me that you were an adorable little boy; isn't that funny? I don't suppose you'd like to meet her, would you? Women do appreciate a sensitive man." _

Lips quirk. Eyes spark. And Ed fell to pieces every time.

Damn it all, he missed the man.

In the beginning, he had found himself desperately trying to avoid the conversation. After a bit of wheedling, Mustang usually retreated into some dark corner of his subconscious. But later, after he had succumbed to the fact that the gut-wrenching hunger and mind-numbing boredom were conspiring against him to make him simply miserable, he found that talking to this Mustang wasn't all that bad.

So he did – most days, until the occurrence just became normal in his mundane daily routine. Breakfast at eight, meeting with a dead man at ten – bout of guilt-ridden tears and tirades to follow – lunch at noon, and dinner at six. There would, of course, be the occasional unscheduled bathroom break or book-seeking escapade, and if the bastard didn't show up, his time slot was replaced with a nice, long, soothing session of counting the bolts in the wall.

No one could say that Edward Elric didn't have an utterly fulfilling life.

It shouldn't have surprised him that if the guards saw him reaching for that damnable book, they heard him talking to Mustang too. Before long, there was a book on his nightstand to accompany his breakfast. Ed had looked at it for a moment, disbelief flitting over his features and then a sense of suspicion joining the mix. These were the guards, his sworn enemies, and here they were offering him a lovely, red, leather-bound tome. Something just wasn't right. But before long, he forgot his suspicions in his desperate need for _some_ form of stimulation. He hurriedly snatched the book and cradled it against his chest, stealing glances around the cell and just _daring_ anyone to relieve him of his newfound treasure.

There was no title on the book, but there was a page marked with a satiny blue ribbon. Ed opened to that page, crooned in delight if only because his greasy hair was _begging _to be tied back and now he finally had the means to do so. How could the guards be so –

His eyes skimmed the title on the marked page.

_Depressants._

Absolute horror kept him reading, utter disbelief stopped him from slamming the book shut then and there. And while his frantic fervor only allowed him to pick out certain words, they were enough for everything to come together in a wave of one terrible realization after another.

_Most often leads to severe physical and mental addiction_ –

_swelling lethargy_ –

_May feel insatiable appetite_ –

_and hallucinations_.

There was a laugh from somewhere far off.

Ed groaned then, anguish and disbelief and hatred, and wanted only for his tortured body to let him drift off to sleep. But alas, he closed his eyes, felt like drowning, and his hunger would not be satisfied.

_**

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_**Hypothesis**_

Were it not for Colonel Hawkeye, Alphonse would have been lost in inner workings of the Amestris legal system long ago. There were too many loopholes and rat traps, too many places he could get snagged and lose his way. It was unfair and terrifying to think that his brother had to face this confusing sea of laws and bylaws and paragraphs _alone _nearly two years prior. He admired Colonel Mustang for what he did – or rather, _tried_ to do – for his brother, because it was such an amazing, beautiful, (_stupid_) sacrifice – just so his brother could go free, just so his brother wouldn't be by himself. Hearing the way his Niisan referred to the embrace

he received from his superior officer, he valued it more than he would ever admit. He must have drawn strength from Mustang's courage then, and Alphonse took it upon himself to do the same. He was, after all, attempting something similar. He was just going about it in a much more cool-headed, methodical manner (even if his emotions were itching to shove common sense aside) and it was reassuring to know that, thanks to Hawkeye, the law was on their side this time.

Only a day after he had seen Edward at his very worst, Hawkeye sent the information to the public in the form of an enormous, front-page story in the _Central Times _simply titled, **"Fullmetal Military Scandal." **Under the headline was a black and white picture of Edward, scowling and impatient, tongue wiggling out of the corner of his mouth, and a row of numbers balanced in one flesh hand. His prison mug shot. It made Alphonse laugh to look at, because even in the face of this, his Niisan looked confident, if not a bit irritated, that ever-present fire in his eyes glimmering and reflecting the burning brightness of the camera's flashbulb. Below that was a lengthy story detailing the conditions of his detainment and the date of his retrial, along with some _heavily _biased opinions regarding his innocence. It didn't particularly matter to him that this article was biased though, because it was so in his favor – his and his Niisan's. The _Central Times_ certainly must have known what they were publishing, must have known that it was one of the most slanderous, incriminating articles that Alphonse had ever seen in print – because it _sold_.

Making such an accusation of the former Fuhrer was juicy gossip and it had all the housewives clucking hours after the release of the article. The world knew of the Fullmetal Alchemist – Amestris loved the Fullmetal Alchemist – and paper sales certainly reflected that. The next day, special editions of the _Central Times_ were shipped to cities across the country. Rizenbul and Dublith, East and West and South City all heard that the Fullmetal Alchemist was alive but incarcerated, was accused of heinous crimes against the state and the military. And it seemed odd to Al that only days before, no one had even known his brother was alive.

The article was written by an "unknown" source, but reading it, Alphonse immediately recognized the smooth, efficient military clip of Colonel Hawkeye's writing. He was also amused to find that he could tell where Havoc had added his own less-than-eloquent input to the story. It didn't matter who had written it though, because the story was true down to the letter, and it put the public exactly where they wanted them with a sort of smooth, anonymous efficiency that only Hawkeye could accomplish.

The men in the office said she was more like Mustang everyday, and Alphonse really wished that he didn't have to take their word for it.

The funniest part of it was that the article declared the date of his brother's trial. Alphonse knew, however, that before the article was released, there hadn't _been _a trial date. Hawkeye had taken the idea to the higher-ups, certainly, and it surprised them to learn that Edward Elric was indeed alive and well – but they weren't interested (nor, it seemed, compassionate) enough to alert the people to an enormous scandal right under the military's nose. But as soon as the media was involved, as soon as the whole country was clamoring for the military to confirm their attempt to rectify the Fullmetal Scandal, the trial date was finalized and the Fuhrer himself promised to preside.

This was probably what Hawkeye had been expecting.

Hell, this was exactly what she had planned and Alphonse knew it. Tricky, manipulative woman.

Admirable woman.

Later that week, after Alphonse had received excited calls from both the Rockbells and his Sensei, he felt that there was one more person who ought to know the good news. So he got an address from Fuery and set off to the quiet, out-of-the-way cemetery where the legendary Flame Alchemist had been put to rest.

Mustang hadn't been provided with a military funeral. In the wake of the Liore tragedy, there had been over seven thousand other men who needed them just as badly – if not more so. Roy Mustang, after all, had no family. Who would have attended?

Once he got there, it took him quite some time to find the headstone. It was little different from the thousands of others, after all. The only things that changed from stone to stone besides the occasional chip or crack were the names, dates, and titles beneath. When he did come upon it (_absolute luck _he would recall, thinking about it some days later) it was plain and gray, exactly what he had expected. But he kneeled before it, touched his hands to the earth, touched his lips to the stone and thanked the man beneath him in every way he knew how.

"I'm told that you saved us," he whispered against the stone, laying the newspaper announcing Edward's retrial on the ground. "I'm sorry we couldn't do the same for you." With that, he climbed to his feet, memorizing the entirely inadequate memorial in one final glance. "Thank you."

And he left, because it wouldn't do to be late to a meeting with the Fuhrer.

**_

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**_Experiment_**

Nearly a week after Edward had been off the influence of whatever the hell those bastards had drugged him up with, he started to get jittery and nauseous. He figured that they had been giving him less and less every day in an attempt to make the sudden lack of the drug less of a shock to his system. He supposed he could thank them for that, at least, but really, it hadn't helped much. Once the water stopped tasting funny (was he just so used to it that he hadn't noticed?) every symptom of withdrawal detailed in that godforsaken book started to rear its ugly head.

He was irritable and tired; he was sore and his stomach constantly threatened send his food right back where it came from. Just getting a cup to his mouth had become a challenge for how much his hands were shaking, and he couldn't for the life of him get a good night's sleep. He almost preferred the mind-numbing boredom.

"Not up yet, Fullmetal? For shame. You need to eat your breakfast."

Despite the fact that Edward was feeling more and more like absolute shit with each passing day, his hallucinations were never, ever late.

"G'way," he mumbled irritably into his flat pillow, brow furrowing in annoyance and head pounding in time with the beat of his heart. "I was almost asleep."

"Ah, but I have something I do believe you will enjoy reading," the hallucination mused smugly, and if Edward had been bothered enough to look up, he knew the bastard's eyes would have been glinting. And then there was something solid thrown on the bed next to him, which was odd, because Roy wasn't solid, couldn't hold anything solid, couldn't get anything solid through a closed door. Curiosity piqued, he slowly turned over and felt around, unwilling to open his eyes just yet because he knew that he would be barraged with unwelcome light, and he didn't think his headache could take something like that just then. Foray

He stopped abruptly when his hand fell upon something dry and smooth, and he ventured a look when he determined that it was a newspaper, something he hadn't seen in nearly two years.The enormous, bold headline glared at him as soon as he cracked his eyelids, and it only made his eyes open wider in surprise.

**"Fullmetal Military Scandal" – **it was perhaps the most exciting thing he had seen in all his life (_besides a red glow from within an empty suit of armor_). Hell, Edward could have _cried_ right then and there, regardless of who was watching (be it a hallucination or guard), because they had come _through_ for him – someone out there was still thinking of him, someone out there remembered that his life still had _meaning_.

So, he found it odd when the first thing out of his mouth was, "Not the most flattering picture of me."

Mustang smirked and sauntered to Ed's side, glancing at the photograph in question over his shoulder. "Oh, I don't know – I think the tongue is a nice element. Makes it look as if you're concentrating." Ed snorted, then remembered he was speaking with someone who technically didn't exist, and busied himself with reading the article – a daunting task when his hands refused to cease in their endless shaking.

He wondered absently if chills were another symptom of withdrawal that the book had overlooked, because _damn_ – it was freezing in here. But then there was a wisp of white floating up in front of him, and he realized that he could see his breath. Not just him, then.

"Hey Mustang, why don't you make yourself useful and find the goddamn thermostat. If you can bring me a newspaper, I'm sure you could handle turning a knob." Mustang gave him

an unexpectedly warm smile, and a blanket fell over Ed's shoulders. Ed's eyes, if it were possible, got even wider.

"Better?" He inquired softly. Edward's head, seemingly of it's own volition, bobbed once in an attempted nod. "Good."

Mustang visited Ed often. He talked, he smirked, he laughed, he taunted. He had never, however, interacted with anything _tangible_, with anything _real_. That particular aspect of this visit had Ed extremely puzzled. Edward's scientific thought processes quickly produced two possible hypotheses. The first, and far more likely, was that the _rest _of Edward's senses had decided to play tricks with him, if only so the sense of sight wouldn't be lonely. The second was…

The second was…

"Mustang?"

"Mmm?"

"M-Mustang?"

"Yes?"

"_M-Mustang?!_"

"Don't be offended, Fullmetal, but I do believe you've already said that."

"Mustang." And the last was said as a statement, solid proof to Ed that he was either going insane or that his hallucinations had taken on more of Mustang's quirks than they ever had

before. And there was a glint in Mustang's eye as he crouched before Edward, smiling gently and nodding.

"Yes."

"Are you...you're real?" Mustang sucked in a deep breath at that, absently patting the knees of his tailored, gray suit. Another inconsistency – Edward had never _seen_ Mustang in this outfit – all of his hallucinations wore a tidy military uniform. All of his hallucinations wore what he remembered Mustang wearing.

And how could they not? Hallucinations did, after all, originate in his mind – portrayed what he remembered about the man. As such, the Mustang hallucination was a man with a two-dimensional personality, because in all truth, Edward didn't know much about Mustang as a man outside his position as a Colonel.

"Not precisely, no." Edward felt his heart crush and tear to pieces.

Of course he couldn't be real, Ed reprimanded himself, you _killed _him. Ed's face flushed, in embarrassment, in anger, in an overwhelming amount of self-loathing that he hadn't been able to focus on properly since jitters and nausea had dominated his daily life.

"I'm sor – "

"Please don't be, Edward."

"Shut up!" He squawked. "I did this to you! It's my fault, dammit! Let me take the blame!" _It's something I need to do._ _It's something I've always done._

"I'm afraid I can't do that. Everything I did, I did for you, of my own free will."

Edward said nothing, lost in his own thoughts, mind struggling to interpret all of the evidence Roy had given him and all the evidence he had given himself as to what the hell was going on. But it was hard to concentrate; his head still throbbed mercilessly, he was still freezing, and there was still bile creeping up the back of his throat.

_Hallucinations. _He concluded uncertainly, eyes falling on the book resting beside him. _What kind of a sick bastard am I? I want the Colonel to come here and comfort me for my sins. This is nothing but another drug-induced adventure into my twisted subconscious. _

"Hey, now, Edward," Mustang's image murmured placatingly.

Edward's mind still turbulently debated and compared despite his last conclusion, ricocheting back and forth between facts, trying to be in control of the situation as it always had, wanting to know everything as it always had. But this was just too much, and Edward felt that his brain was approaching critical mass.

It seemed much easier, at that point, to hand the reigns of his actions over to his far less rational emotions.

"Why are you here?! Why can't you just stay the hell away from me?!" This statement, quite unintentionally, ended in a heart-wrenching sob, and Ed hated himself for letting this get to him. It was as if he was a child, fucking twelve years old again, and he was standing in front of a desk that had absolutely no right to look so damn big. And then behind it was the smirking, condescending Colonel, all dark hair and gleaming eyes – provoking and distracting, pushing and shoving in all the right directions. He was a child and he was arguing with a man who had become and would be a constant in his life – who was so mighty, he thought he might live forever –

_NO!_

This image wearing Roy's face _shouldn't_ be getting to him.

_But it never has before. _A tiny voice inside of him piped up. _This man is more than that._

"I hate you!" He cried desperately, willing it to be true with his very heart and soul. The Colonel heard the uncertainty lacing the tone, though, and he inched closer to the bed. Edward shifted his gaze to watch his progress, noting with dismay that he didn't cast a shadow, and his brown loafers made no noise as they inched across cold metal floor.

Suddenly, there was a weight on his hand. It was mind-numbingly cold and Ed felt as if his very joints were being coated in a fine layer of frost.

He vaguely wondered if his bones would shatter.

But he didn't move his hand.

"Alphonse is gorgeous, Edward," Mustang whispered. At first, Edward took that entirely wrong, got an absurd mental picture of Alphonse and Mustang having at it on the Colonel's unnecessarily large wooden desk. It took him a moment to realize that what he said hadn't been small talk, what he said hadn't been recycled from his mind's eye, what he had said was real and genuine and heartwarming and – FUCK! Ed let out a miserable, strangled wail and buried his face in his hand, bringing his knee to his chest and doing his best to imitate one of the roly poly bugs from under the stones outside Winry's old house.

"Mustang, I see you all the time. You're not real. You're not alive," he muttered into his knee. But at this point, it was all some sort of charade. They were dancing the same dance they had when he was a child – each bowing and stepping forward but refusing to take one another's hands.

"I'm not alive Edward, and I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for what they put you through, too." He reached up, gently, and combed through Edward's bangs with nimble fingertips. Edward shuttered, exhaled a large cloud of white and could almost feel his lips turning blue."Don't be sorry for me, I got what I wanted. I got everything I wanted at the cost of your

life... The only thing that I can't help hating, is that I don't know what's real anymore! Those

bastards doped me up and didn't bother to read the label, and now I still think I'm dreaming! Hell, I know I am. What are you supposed to be...a ghost?!" Ed ranted, steeling himself against Mustang's icy touch. Not ice, Mustang shouldn't be ice. "Ghosts don't exist. You know I don't believe in them," Edward hissed. Mustang was never ice – Mustang was _fire_.

"Oh?" Roy cocked his elegant eyebrow in mock curiosity and Edward bit his frozen lower lip. "A Miss Gracia Hughes confided in me that you believed you saw an _image_ of Maes, waving at you from a train platform, days after his death. Did you believe in that?" Mustang's voice stayed eerily level, but Edward could hear the gravity, the firmness in his tone. "Do you truly believe that if you can attach a soul to a suit of armor, that if you could physically grasp your brother's soul in the gate, that the mind and soul aren't something just as tangible as the human form!?"

Edward let out another pathetic little sob and clutched his knee tighter. "I don't know, you bastard! D'you hear me!? I just don't _KNOW _anymore!"

Mustang sighed heavily. "Edward, I didn't come to upset you. I came to tell you that it wasn't your fault, that you didn't kill me. I came to tell you that I loved you, I still love you, and I would have given a thousand lifetimes to see you alive with your brother. Please don't let your time go to waste." This image said he knew Edward, and truly, Edward believed him. The quirks and personality were all there and all strong, but the words coming out of this man's mouth just seemed entirely _wrong_. There was so much of Mustang that he didn't know, and Edward hated that now that he finally had gotten to see a softer side of the smug bastard, it was just _too late_. "Your brother gave me a visit and that knowledge, along with the fact that you always were a well-oiled guilt machine back in your glory days was enough to tell me that you would blame yourself. You always blame yourself." _I need to blame myself. _"Don't."

"I just...I hate that I felt betrayed when you never came back," Edward admitted to his knee, with whom he had apparently become very close friends. "I wanted to hate you for a while, you know. You _promised_."

"I know," he ran a (_non-existent!_) hand through his (_non-existent!_) hair, mouth suddenly a tight line. "I hated that I couldn't come back too. But how were you to know what happened, Ed? You shouldn't feel guilty for things that are out of your control."

"Was it...you?"

"Was what me?"

"The...the article?"

"Oh, certainly not. I'm not capable of something so eloquent. It was me, however, who left the trail of breadcrumbs to your prison cell – oh, and some very good evidence in the form of your handwriting. In the top drawer of my file cabinet. No doubt Hawkeye will find that, as well." He winked, and Edward's gut clenched uncomfortably. He was reminded vaguely of another man who had lost his life for him. "Riza did take longer than expected following those crumbs, though." He shrugged. "No matter, all's well that ends well. My faithful team will see that you are among free men as soon as humanly possible."

There was a companionable silence.

"He is gorgeous, isn't he?" Edward blurted out breathlessly, excited now, as if it were something he had been itching to ask. "He's perfect."

"You did wonderfully, Edward. You truly did. Always a prodigy, always brave," Mustang smiled, and Edward could detect a hint of pride lurking beneath the surface. "I," a pause, and the firm gentleness of his tone was back again. "I was finally able to see what you were up against – what you saw all those times you ventured beyond the realm of the living."

Edward inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, fighting back memories of clawing hands and grasping fingers, swallowing his nausea in one fluid gulp.

"Oh yeah? And?"

"It scared me shitless, for lack of a more eloquent term," he smiled again. "And I'm in my thirties."

Ed merely shrugged.

"Speaking of the gate, Shrimp, I should probably be on my way. People to see, you know," and he moved to stand.

"NO!" Mustang paused, his expression pained. "I..."

_– don't want you to leave me. _

_– don't want to be alone. _

_– love you too. _

"...am not a shrimp." It was difficult to think that if Mustang left now, Edward would never see him again. Suddenly everything was far too real. The undeniable truths of his life were crashing down around him. It was surreal to be having this oh-so-familiar conversation with a ghost, knowing quite well that he would never have it again.

Edward would really miss being called short.

"Of course, Edward. My mistake. You're ten feet tall," he clapped Edward on the shoulder in a fond sort of fatherly way, shooting icy needles up and down Ed's spine. "Now remember what I said – no worries, no guilt. Don't look back. Just be happy – and smile. You have such handsome smile." Ed gave him one then, tainted with bittersweet melancholy and tear stained.

"Thanks...thanks, Colonel Bastard."

"Give my regards to Alphonse, short stuff," Mustang lifted two fingers in flippant salute, smirking despite the fact that his gaze had gone slightly glassy.

Then he stepped back and closed his eyes, the embodiment of grace and spirit and fire even as he let the Gate take him. The gate yawned open, and Edward could instantly feel a prickling where the eyes of the Gatelings seemed to pierce his very soul. They chittered wordlessly for a moment as their arms closed around his tormentor and mentor, his oppressor and his saint – and for a fleeting moment, Ed wanted to call out and tell them to _take me instead_. They seemed to notice his uncertainty, cast gleaming violet eyes in his direction and stilled on him, asking silently, _what's it going to be_? But images of Alphonse flashed before him, and he knew that he was needed. So he shook his head and grasped his automail port until his knuckles went white, glaring straight back at them.

_I've already paid my debt._

They blinked simultaneously in some sort of understanding, turning back to the task at hand. Mustang was soon enveloped in black, and Ed closed his eyes desperately before he could

see Mustang disappearing into that gaping black abyss, because he didn't want that to be his last memory of the Colonel. He wanted to remember Mustang's warmth despite the fact that he was icy cold, he wanted to remember that proud smile and those dark, glassy eyes.

It wouldn't hurt to remember that Mustang had called him tall, as well.

When he finally opened his eyes, the gate hadn't disappeared yet. It was still there, doors wide open and beckoning. He looked into their depths, wary, because he knew what that door was capable of giving, and he knew very well what it was capable of taking away. The Gatelings were parted and bowed, momentarily stilled in their constant writhing and grasping in some sort of reverent moment. Ed kept looking, hardly feeling the bed beneath him – indeed, unsure of whether it was there anymore at all – but nothing came. Just smooth fields of inky blackness as far as the eye could see.

A good five minutes into the staring contest, just as he had gathered the courage to ask if they wanted another fucking _arm _or something, the Gatelings began their insane giggling again and the doors slammed shut with a mighty thunk.

Abruptly, he was aware of coarse sheets and a prison cot again. He took in the same dull, dank prison cell, and he wondered vaguely if all of it had been a dream. But his hands crept to the blanket lying on his shoulders, and his eyes fell to the newspaper resting in his lap.

He would have to get around to reading that article. But now, there was sleeping to be done. The experience had leeched him of what little energy he had, and now that all was said and done, his hands were still shaking.

He slumped backwards onto the lumpy mattress and flat pillows, closed his eyes, and wondered why exactly he still felt so cold.

* * *

**To be continued...**

Reviews please?


	14. Immortality

Hello everyone!

I'd like to insert a little shameless advertising here. I am collaberating with my homies **Aemilia Rose** and **Feyrae **to create a **Gen Fanfiction Forum **that anyone is welcome to join. There will be more information in my next story post (which is bound to be soon! Thanksgiving Break next week!) because it is still a work in progress, but it is shaping up to be a nice site, and it should be a relief for all my friends out there who are as tired of yaoi and smut 24/7 as we are. X3 Gen is love.

Anyway. Without further ado, I give you the very last leg in this story's journey, as I very much doubt I will be posting it anywhere else now. ;D I've spammed too many places already. -sniffle- That makes about five months I've been dealing with this story. I'm really going to miss it. X3

This is the conclusion to the _Theory of Immortality _trilogy. The last piece of the puzzle. I hope that for all of those who have been waiting for it, everything comes together nicely. :3

**No pairings, divergent future episode 43, pretty darn foul language.**

Enjoy!

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**Analysis**

The new Fuhrer had a kind sort of air about him. Alphonse had yet to see anything but a soft smile on his face, and his eyes glimmered with wisdom and understanding. He had offered

Alphonse tea upon his arrival, laughed jovially at all of Alphonse's nervous tendencies, and there was a lovely picture of him holding two little girls resting atop his desk.

Alphonse silently willed his body to sink into the chair below him. All evidence indicated that the Fuhrer was nothing but a kind, loving man, but Alphonse was hopelessly intimidated regardless. Perhaps it was the fact that his brother's freedom, his brother's very _life _was depending on what he said and did here.

Not that he was feeling pressured.

"You mean to say that you remember absolutely nothing? Why your brother was in Liore? Why you disobeyed Colonel Mustang?" Alphonse shook his head slowly, bit his lower lip, and sat on his hands to keep from fidgeting. "You do realize that this isn't exactly conducive to your case, Mr. Elric. I want to believe your brother is not guilty, but all evidence seems to indicate the contrary." Alphonse couldn't stand to look at that kind face anymore – his brow was furrowed in concern, his lips twisting and itching to form compassionate words. It seemed as if he was trying to be fatherly – though Alphonse had little idea of how fathers were supposed to act – and quite frankly, Al didn't appreciate the gesture. What he needed – what he _wanted – _wasn't a father, because he hadn't wanted one those since he was nine. And then, he had only wanted him so their mother wouldn't die alone. She hadn't died alone though, because he had been there. He and his Niisan.

It was then that Colonel Hawkeye interjected, a shining beacon of positive energy and light in Alphonse's life. It had been upon her insistence that she accompany him to this meeting, and he had gladly allowed it. After all, she knew so much more about his Niisan's case, knew so much more about the ways of the world and the people in it. She could speak with this man so much more easily.

"Sir, with all due respect, does the evidence we have mean absolutely nothing? Witness accounts indicate that Edward killed no one. Indeed, over fifty men tell us that they were saved by his quick thinking." She drew a folder from one of the many in her pack, then drew from that

a fat stack of yellowing papers. "If you'll look through these, you'll understand what I mean. These are all of the witness' reports." She then rustled through another stack and withdrew a photograph that she was careful to keep from Alphonse's eyes. Judging by the Fuhrer's reaction to it, he was extremely glad she did.

"This is a photograph of Colonel Frank Archer, who was injured at the time of the Liore incident and died of massive hemorrhaging shortly after. His autopsy revealed that his wounds were alchemically inflicted, and this death report from the coroner himself states that 'it was as if he was caught between two alchemic reactions.' Our experts concluded, based on photographic evidence and on-site inspection, that someone fashioned an alchemic bubble of sorts to ward off another destructive alchemical force, and in the process, he saved some of our men, which corresponds perfectly with all witness accounts." Alphonse tried to catch Colonel Hawkeye's eye, tried to tell her in some way that he loved her – he _loved_ her for what she was doing for him. She reported her evidence flawlessly, constantly calm and always collected. Her words were smooth and eloquent, flowing from her mouth in one flawless string – her words were naught but grotesque accounts and evidence, but she made them sound beautiful and sweet, like a song.

And boy, did she ever sound _convincing_. Colonel Hawkeye, Alphonse concluded, would make one hell of a salesman.

"Ah, please, there's no need to go on Colonel. I can see you've done your research. Based on only the evidence that I've heard already, I believe you're very capable of making a case for the Fullmetal Alchemist," Hawkeye gave a tight-lipped smile and a nod, clasping her hands in her lap.

"Thank you, sir."

"I'm just concerned," he continued, brow furrowed in the aggravating paternal manner again, "that Alphonse's missing memories will be taken advantage of."

"Ah...I'm not quite sure I understand that, Mr. Fuhrer, sir," Alphonse interjected, suddenly incensed and unsure why.

"Well, Alphonse, many believe that your brother may have instigated that alchemic reaction from elsewhere – that even if he was not the one setting off the array, he may have been pulling the strings from afar. Your missing memories could have been your brother's attempt to alchemically modify your recollection of the situation, so as not to present any incriminating evidence. You understand our suspicions, of course." Alphonse could feel his blood boiling and he must have been going red in the face, because seconds before Al felt as if he would explode, the Colonel's hand was on his arm.

Instead of jumping up to slap the aggravating paternal expression off of the Fuhrer's face, Alphonse closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and grated out, "My Niisan's integrity should not be something so easily questioned." How dare they, how DARE they accuse his brother of doing that to him! "Edward is my everything, and he has been ever since we lost our mother. He would NEVER do something like that to me, _sir_."

"Please try to understand, Alphonse," the Fuhrer gave an uncertain smile.

"No, _you _please understand," Alphonse hissed, and Hawkeye shot a warning glare at him. "I love my Niisan so much it _hurts_, and I trust him with my life. He's kind and trustworthy and loving and warm. He's giving and thoughtful and when he went to Liore, it was to stop – " Alphonse stopped, realized what he was saying, and then continued, testing the words on his tongue. "It was to stop Scar. To stop the man who really did it." Hawkeye glanced up at him sharply, surprised, and the Fuhrer eyed him critically. But Alphonse couldn't stop now. "He...he...Scar was our enemy, but I was going to explode...ah, nevermind that.

"Ed hated Scar and Scar wanted the stone. Why would he help Scar?! He wouldn't. HE WOULDN'T, 'CAUSE HE BLEW UP MY NIISAN'S _ARM_!" Alphonse explained frantically, rising to his feet and pacing across the room, spinning his arms like a pinwheel in a tornado. Hawkeye and the Fuhrer watched him in silent interest, nodding occasionally to prove that they were indeed listening, though Alphonse cared very little if they were or not.

"Scar had something against the military, 'cause he was Ishballan...and, and he had red eyes and killed state alchemists! And my Niisan was a state alchemist. And he wanted to kill my Niisan!" The images were coming, and Al couldn't seem to stop them; it was as if some floodgate had suddenly opened in his mind. People and places were surfacing, and Alphonse quickly tried to sort through all of the gunk, desperately groping for anything remotely relevant.

"So...so later he transferred to Archer's command. HE TRANSFERRED TO ARCHER'S COMMAND! Archer sent him to Liore, not Mustang, dontcha see?! He didn't disobey Mustang by going to Liore at all!" Alphonse ceased in his pacing long enough to pound a fist on the Fuhrer's desk. "IT'S ALL SO _OBVIOUS_ NOW!"

"Alphonse..." the Colonel said, tone worried and warning.

"HAWKEYE! THE LETTER!" Alphonse turned on her, grasping the arms of her chairs, enlightened eyes gleaming and face flushed. "My Niisan sent a letter from Liore that told the army not to invade! Do you have it!?" Hawkeye jumped at the urgency in his tone, recalling the letter in question and the startling discovery that had come with it. "DO YOU?!" He swiveled again to face the Fuhrer, spinning so quickly he overbalanced and almost toppled into a bookcase. "That proves it, without a doubt – it PROVES he didn't want the military there! He didn't want to kill those people at all!"

Hawkeye rose quickly, because Alphonse's enthusiasm was simply _infectious. _"Ah...I believe...the Colonel... If you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment." She snapped off a quick salute and scurried out the door with as much dignity as possible, which was very little, considering her uniform's formal skirt caught momentarily on the doorframe and she had to pause to inelegantly yank it loose.

Alphonse made a sound resembling a deflating balloon and slumped into a chair. The Fuhrer merely stared at him, eyebrows furrowed and face contemplative. Neither attempted to start a conversation, because Alphonse was too busy trying to sort things out in his muddled mind and the Fuhrer was quite honestly, far too baffled at the whole situation.

Hawkeye returned fifteen minutes later, panting and red-faced, but holding a crumpled piece of brown paper aloft triumphantly. Alphonse beamed and the Fuhrer extended a hand to accept the letter.

Both Hawkeye and Alphonse held their breath as his eyes traveled deliberately back and forth across the page, face betraying absolutely nothing.

"Well," the Fuhrer said after looking up from his reading, still holding the paper delicately between two fingers. "Quite honestly, I'm not sure what just happened, but..."

"Ah, sir..." Alphonse started, but the Fuhrer merely raised his hand in a halting gesture, and then the most incredible thing happened.

He _smiled. _He gave an enormous, teeth-bearing grin, and Alphonse's breathing evened and slowed as an enormous weight was kindly removed from his chest. It was so much easier to talk and move and breath now that it didn't feel as if his heart were in a vice.

And best of all, he wouldn't have to see the heartbreaking look on his brother's face when he told him exactly how much he didn't remember.

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**Conclusion **

The new Fuhrer was a saint – a fucking _SAINT _as far as Edward Elric was concerned. The fact that he hadn't known Edward was incarcerated a month before was easily overlooked as Ed was supplied with painkillers and blankets, books and delicacies. It truly was a pity that the warden and his guards only started caring when the higher-ups did, that they only stopped sedating him because it was quite clearly _illegal_. The only reason, and truly the _only_ reason, Edward was being treated with any sliver of humanity was because the guards and supervisors and warden all knew that their asses were on the line. If Edward Elric, current media goldmine and long-time military pet, were ever to alert the military bigwigs of his mistreatment, they could just kiss their jobs goodbye.

The drug's side effects were still present all these days later. Edward's hands were still shaking, but it wasn't quite so extreme now that the migraines had dulled to an achey sort of throb that one gets when they have a head cold. His hallucinations had been back once or twice, but it hadn't been the Colonel, and Ed was extremely thankful for that. In fact, once, his hallucination had been Den, and he spent nearly an hour absently scratching behind the nonexistent dog's ears before he realized what exactly he was doing. True, he was absentminded and flighty – and true, his nausea had increased tenfold along with the godforsaken hunger pang that he never could quite crush. But at least now he could _sleep_. And that wasn't the fault of the sleeping pills they pushed in his direction, (because he violently refused them every time – he had been drugged quite enough already, thanks) no, that was entirely Mustang's doing.

A clear conscience does a body _wonders_.

On one particular morning, Ed woke to find his head surprisingly clear, his logic and sense gradually returning and sharp as ever. Perhaps it was the early morning, the clearness something one achieves when they had just woken; perhaps it was the visit he'd had only days earlier. Regardless, the lucidity gave him a moment to think – a moment to remember, and Ed took advantage of it while the clarity was still there.

It hadn't hit him until then precisely how strange his encounter with Mustang really was. His logic-influenced mind concluded that ghosts are nothing but a figment of the imagination, which led to another part of him arguing over the origin of the newspaper and this newfound sense of peace with the whole goddamn world. A third part of him urged the others to just leave him alone, because for a few shining moments, he felt pretty damn good.

Then his darkest side seemed to emerge from some shadowy sliver of his soul and slithered its way unwanted into the conversation. It seemed intent on focusing on the Gate, and in focusing on the Gate, it seemed intent on bringing up one particular instance in which the Gate had tried to tell him _something_ (if he could only figure out _what_).

Ed combed through the file cabinets of his knowledge regarding alchemy and science – anything academically relevant – and while the sheer amount was indeed extensive, there was nothing _new_. The Gate, in those final moments after the Colonel had disappeared, had remained open and told him something, because everything the Gate did had some sort of reason. It didn't just go about showing itself willy nilly.

_What had he _learned_, damnit!_

A guard chose that moment to ease the door open, slow as he was able, eyeing him cautiously. It amazed Edward that even now, after he had been harmless and bedridden for a little under two years, the guards could still be so scared of him. He had done absolutely nothing to provoke or intimidate these guards. Hell, he hadn't performed alchemy since he'd come here (not that he hadn't _thought _of it, of course).

What followed behind the guard made Ed immediately abandon all coherent thought in order to make room for an enormous flashing marquee in which the word "AL" flew by in varying colors and extremely bold print.

Ed wiggled in his seat and threw his arm wide, grinning at his little brother. Edward hadn't seen him since their first reunion, and had been looking forward to the visit for quite some time. He had tried not to get his hopes up, because he figured it would be just like those prison bastards to give him a taste of what he wanted and then yank it all away. Now that his head was clearer, however, it occurred to him that they had taken him off sedatives for a reason, that they were treating him civilly for a reason – and it shouldn't have surprised him that his baby brother had something to do with it.

Al beamed when he saw his older brother, face splitting into an enormous grin, and Edward could have just melted right then and there. There was the Alphonse he knew from childhood, whole and healthy and complete, grinning and loving and happy to see him. There was the Alphonse he had seen all along, caged within an enormous steel prison but not broken – never, ever broken. There was_ his_ Alphonse, who was the most amazing, caring person in the world, who loved him unconditionally even though he didn't deserve it one little bit. There was Alphonse, walking through his door to deliver him from this literal prison as he had delivered Alphonse from his metaphorical one two years ago.

Edward didn't speak as Alphonse embraced him, just inhaled and marveled at the fact that _even the fucking scent was the same_. Alphonse smelled warm and soft, just as he had in

childhood – like soap and linens dried in the sun. His hair felt the same, like woven silk, his skin felt the same, baby smooth. This was his Alphonse. Edward traced his hand along his baby brother's spine, feeling the smooth breaths and the even flow of muscles constricting against one another.

The next thing he knew, Edward was sobbing. Alphonse was there, kneeling in front of him and blinking his perfect brown eyes, the same eyes that had peered at him from across the bedroom at Izumi's house, the same eyes that had been filled with tears at their mother's funeral, the same eyes that had greeted him from the folds of a baby blanket – all the same, but so different, because this time – _he'd_ had a hand in creating them.

"Hey, hey," Al murmured, patting Edward's back. "There's no need to be upset. Everything is going to be fine." And Edward cried out again, this time desperately, clutching tightly to the fabric of Al's jacket. "Shhh. Don't cry, Niisan."

"D-d-damn withdrawal. Damn moodswings, Al," he choked. "Can't help it. Love you so fuckin' much."

"I love you too, Niisan," Al assured him quietly. Then, something about what Edward had said seemed to hit him, and Alphonse's expression morphed into something fierce and protective. "Withdrawal?" He inquired to his brother's down-turned face. When he didn't receive an answer, he gently pried his brother's shaking fingers from his jacket and used his freed arm to tilt Edward's head upward until he was gazing into teary golden eyes. "What do you mean by withdrawal?"

"Ah...it's difficult to explain. You don't really need to know." Edward hiccuped.

"Well I have a secret for you as well. Why don't you try me, and then I'll feel more obliged to share my own," Alphonse said smugly. It wasn't fair, Edward thought, that his brother had so much control over him. He was the Fullmetal Alchemist, damnit. He was supposed to answer to no one – yet here he was cowering at the feet of a seventeen-year-old boy. His brother shouldn't be able to take advantage of his love so freely. Ed felt nauseous at the thought.

No...no, Ed just felt nauseous.

"Hey...Hey Al?"

"Niisan, you know you can tell me anything."

"Yeah, I know Al, but..."

"Please, you know I love you and I want to make up for the time you lost here. I feel terrible about everything that's happened, and I wish that you would answer my question," Al ranted, and Ed wondered if maybe he'd created his brother without lungs, because he didn't seem to need to breathe.

"Al, please...just..."

"No I'm sorry, but I don't want any more secrets between us!"

Edward promptly vomited all over his little brother's shoes.

"Does'at answer yer question?"

Al looked calmly at the vomit on his shoes for a moment, then looked back at his brother's face, still placid as ever. "What...what's wrong?"

"I just puked. What do you _think_ is wrong?" Ed retorted sourly.

Al pursed his lips. "You know what I mean."

Ed gestured the book on his nightstand after wiping his mouth with his sleeve, willing away the vile taste on his tongue. "The book explains it better than I do. I don't even understand it myself."

"Does this have something to do with...with my last visit? With the sedatives they were giving you?" Alphonse asked tentatively, letting the word sedative drip off his tongue as if it were something foul. He did, however, remain calm even as he removed his vomit-soaked shoes and demanded a glass of water from the guard hovering at the door.

"Yeah...apparently I developed some kind of dependency on the drugs they were giving me. Been moodswinging like a fuckin' girl...among," he indicated the puddle of vomit on the floor by his bed, "other things." Ed gave what he hoped to be a reassuring -- if not a bit lopsided -- grin, and elbowed Alphonse playfully. "No worries – book says I'll get over it."

_Goddamn warden better hope the book's right._

Alphonse worried his lower lip and offered Edward the glass of water, then seemed torn between beating Edward over the head and hugging him again as their hands brushed. "I'm...I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'll get through it. Guilt'll get you no where," Edward said, waving his hand in a noncommittal fashion. "Mustang taught me that," he added as an afterthought.

Alphonse suddenly seemed excited at the mention of Mustang's name, and Ed leaned back sharply when Alphonse gave a satisfied little leap.

Edward really hoped he had said the right thing, because he didn't want Al to pester him for another ten minutes about his withdrawal. He wanted this to be a pleasant visit, because he didn't know when they would have the chance to visit again. Talking about jitters and dizzy spells for who knows how long would hardly be pleasant.

Mustang, on the other hand, was pleasant. Mustang was a good memory now, and thinking of him left Edward feeling warm, pensive, and calm. He was gone, but somehow, Edward was at peace with that.

"Roy Mustang – the Flame Alchemist! He was a Colonel, and he came to visit us in Rizenbul when he was searching for our father. You never liked him. You called him a manipulative bastard," Alphonse gushed, oozing pride and beaming brightly. Edward felt his mouth go slack.

"Umm...Al?" This was worse than Edward thought. The transmutation had addled his little brother's brain.

"He was good friends with Mr. Hughes. He called you by your military name all the time, which was Fullmetal. Because you were the Fullmetal Alchemist. 'Cause of your automail," he preened. Edward didn't have the heart to tell him that, _I already knew all this, Al, why are you telling me?_ "And...AND. He protected us. He told us that he would use your secret, but he never did. I don't think he would have," Alphonse finished matter-of-factly, clasping his hands behind his back and glowing with pride.

"Hey Al...? You okay?"

"Better than okay, Niisan. I've got my memories back," he removed one of his hands from the knot behind his back and tapped his temple, winking in what Ed thought was a mildly patronizing manner. There was a moment where Edward sat, dumbfounded, a myriad of emotions clashing deep within him.

The first was despair. It seemed natural that the first thing Edward would feel would be self-hatred, and for a moment, he was angry with himself for failing his little brother. He had gotten the body but not the mind? Had he been so driven to restore his little brother's physical form that he forgot Alphonse's most important features? Selfish, selfish, _selfish_.

"Niisan...you okay?"

"Al, I don't understand. Got your memories back?"

"Ah, yeah..." Al started, and Edward prepared himself for another long, breathless explanation. "Y'see, when I first got my body back two years ago I...I didn't remember...well...the last thing I remembered was drawing the…the transmutation circle in our basement."

Then, Ed was afraid. If his brother didn't remember these things, then Ed was alone in his suffering. Being alone was frightening. Solitude (_in a basement, Alphonse gone, mother gone, leg gone, utterly alone_ _and so, so helpless_) was perhaps the most horrible thing he could wish upon anyone.

"Well, imagine my surprise when I found out that I was asleep in a military hospital – two full _days_ away from Rizenbul."

Then, there was relief. Alphonse didn't need to remember those things, really. It was nothing but five years of horrifying, unprecedented misery. People lost, homes lost. Really, he was better off.

"And imagine my surprise when I...well...my body had gone through puberty without me, Niisan. It was a little strange."

Then, there was some unidentifiable emotion, a sort of muted relief because...oh, he remembers. I'm not alone, but he _remembers_. He couldn't quite decide if that was a good or a bad thing.

"And...well...don't feel bad, Niisan. But you weren't there. And I was _scared_."

And then Edward was heartbroken.

"Alphonse."

Because he wasn't there.

"No, no. Don't feel bad!"

And solitude was perhaps the most horrible thing he could wish upon anyone.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered. Moodswings like a fucking _girl_!

"No, no, no, STOPPIT! You only just said guilt will get you nowhere you hypocrite! Plus, didn't you hear me? I got them back, a few days ago. I found you – everything is alright now, Niisan. We were both afraid, don't you see? But we're not anymore. We found each other. And now, here's the best news – your trial date is coming, you have lawyers and petitions! You have so much defense and evidence in favor of your case – thanks to all the stuff Mustang kept – and they're hard-pressed to find a prosecution attorney!"

Edward's heart stopped. He could have sworn that Mustang had already outdone himself – had already disappeared in so much glory that his selflessness eclipsed the sun itself. But no – no, no...count on that tricky, manipulative bastard to outdo himself even in _death_.

"When did you say you got your memories back, Al?" He asked, throat dry.

But he already knew. Some piece of him already knew – but another piece groped desperately for Al's reassurance – because surely, such a man who had done his best to bring him misery in life hadn't just given everything he'd ever loved and lost back to him. Certainly Roy Mustang was no god.

"Ah...about two days ago..."

_It didn't just go about showing itself willy nilly._

"'Round lunchtime."

_What had he _learned_, damnit!_

Edward found it hard to breathe for the tightness in his chest.

"_Why Fullmetal, you haven't figured it out?_" He could imagine the man laughing, smirking, taunting. "**You **_haven't learned anything._"

But Alphonse had.

The world around him shattered, because yes, yes Roy Mustang had to be a god. Roy Mustang had to be _the _God that he didn't believe in.

Roy Mustang gave him more than God ever did.

"Niisan, are you alright?" Edward let out a harsh bark of laughter at the sheer absurdity of the question.

_ALRIGHT? I'm fine! I'm better than I've been in fucking years, thanks to a man I hated in life. Thanks to a man I can't even thank now._

Because in one final moment of glory and selflessness, that bastard gave him everything. In one final transmutation of nothing into something, Roy defined impossible and Roy gave him his very _life_ back.

Alright?

He was fucking well better than alright.

"Yeah...yeah, I think so, Al."

He was goddamn perfect.

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Speechless? ;D I hope not. Because reviews would be lovely. X3 


	15. Father

Alright! Apologies for the long delay, folks! Again, three AP classes. I have no time at all during the week, and usually I'm too tired on the weekend to do anything. X.x I have had this story on my harddrive for AGES but I've been too much of a pansyass to post it until now. Basically it's WANGSTWANGSTWANGST and I HATE it. The writing disgusts me more every time I read it. XD

HOWEVER. There is some Papa!Roy. And I love Papa!Roy more than anything. I had meant to post this around my birthday in February, but I chickened out again. SOOO. I finally gave in to the fact that it wasn't going to get any better and I was tired of changing it, so here it is. :3

I don't have much to say besides that except for thanks to all of you who have stuck with me through all this. I know that my long breaks between fics are annoying, but I'm glad you guys still take the time to read.

Unbeta'd, but I read through it myself. Nothing too serious, I hope. :3

**Warnings: **No real spoilers, suicidal thoughts (XD;;), swearing, (implied) character death.

* * *

The Fuhrer's son was a-fucking-dorable, that was for sure. People just melted, all over the room, when Riza carried him inside, and it disgusted Edward that they could be reduced to inane cooing and coddling just like _that_. He wouldn't be so easily taken in as Winry or Armstrong or Fuery, because certainly, the little fucker was cute – all wide brown eyes and tufts of black hair and pudgy groping fists – but he wasn't cute enough to turn the Fullmetal Alchemist into a babbling pile of goo and automail.

Edward stayed mostly to the side of the room, by the window and away from the merrily crackling fire as his friends ooed and awed over little Maes Mustang, moodily and determinedly looking anywhere but into that fat little face. He was well aware that he was sulking and well aware that his damnable legs were getting stiff. His newly installed left automail arm was also pulling terribly on his tender skin, and the chairs by the fire were looking awfully tempting...

But no. That was where the people were. That was where Roy Mustang was smiling and laughing and looking for all the world like there was nowhere in the world he would rather be.

Edward scowled.

Stupid little fucker.

"Edward," Riza called gently, and the circle around her split open, people turning their warm gazes from the baby in her arms to the him, where their eyes quickly lost their heartfelt glazes and turned disgustingly sympathetic – which wasn't what he wanted at all.

"Congratulations Colonel, Fuhrer," he mumbled to the floor, carefully lifting his left arm to his chest and holding it there with his right, trying to take some of the pulling, gnawing, tug off the skin near his collarbone. He didn't mean to be antisocial, because everyone had told him that the best thing for the mourning process at this point was solid physical company, but he hadn't been with a group this large since... Ah well. He had never been a social butterfly, but something about this friendly little meeting to wish the Mustang family (now complete, Edward thought, happy and complete) well was more frightening and intimidating than the military's annual Christmas Ball.

He hated the looks that followed him everywhere, now. Pitying and sympathizing, tear-filled and unhappy. This room was filled with them, somehow worse than the gazes of those who didn't know him. Unfamiliar people's eyes said, _"I'm sorry. My condolences for your loss. This must be a difficult time for you."_ But the eyes of the people in this room were virtually all the people in the world he trusted with his secret, were the handful that knew, to some extent, what Edward Elric was really feeling. _"What can I do to make that haunted look go away, Edward? I know you're hurting. I understand why. Nothing in the world can make that hurt go away, but I want to see you happy again."_

Winry turned her head and whispered something to Riza, and Ed knew what it had been about the moment Riza spoke next. "Edward, you must be uncomfortable. Why don't you come sit down?" She paused between her sentences, and it sounded to Edward as if she were trying out her words in her own mind before she said them, avoiding saying something that she would regret.

"Naw, don't listen to Winry," Edward shrugged nonchalantly, hiding a wince with a smile at the strain the movement put on his shoulder. "She's just being a mother hen about my stupid arm. Doesn't trust me enough to leave me alone with it now that –" the group inhaled collectively at his careful pause, "– I'm fine, anyway. Really." He only wished the attention would shift back to little Maes.

"Come now, Edward. It's not just that. You're being so antisocial, lurking in the corner; that's not like you. Don't you want to hold the baby?" Riza smiled warmly and gestured her son, who smiled and giggled and tugged gently at her blouse. And then there was Mustang himself hovering protectively behind the two, and didn't those three just make the prettiest picture? What a lovely little family, whole and happy. Someone needed to paint a fucking portrait already.

"Yes, Edward Elric," Armstrong rumbled, took a step forward, "why don't you join us?" For each step the Major took forward, Edward unwittingly took one step back, retreating toward the door. It wasn't fair to the Mustangs that he come to their little baby shower to mope. He knew that it was simply too soon, but they had insisted – Riza had insisted, had said reassuringly that Roy wanted him there more than anyone.

What a load of shit.

Wasn't it just peachy that Mustang had a son to smile at like that? Edward had worked his ass off years ago to get a smile like that. Had fought and scrabbled and hoped that Mustang would just _look_ at him like he was looking at his _own_ little boy now. Had wanted more than anything for Mustang to gaze at him with that sort of fondness.

He had worked for it, and all the fucking baby did was eat, sleep, shit, and giggle. He had worked for it, but it was the damnable baby that got it – a fond smile, a soft, lilting tone, a warm patch in those dark, cool eyes. And Edward wasn't jealous, of course he wasn't jealous of a stupid baby, wasn't jealous that his family had fallen apart entirely just as theirs finally came together. He wasn't jealous.

He wasn't.

"Ah...that's kind of you Colonel, Major – really... But I don't think I could hold the baby, anyway. I haven't quite mastered my fine motor skills." He wiggled his left hand's fingers, exaggerating the fact that he couldn't move them masterfully as the wiggling came off only as a twitch. "The metal would probably upset him, anyway." Armstrong backed off a bit at that, deflated – they all seemed to. And damnit, here he was ruining their party again. "I'm sorry, I'll probably go – I'm a little tired."

"Nonsense, Edward. Come here." When Mustang gave Edward an order, Edward – the Fullmetal in him, at least – damn well listened.

Fullmetal instinctively took a few quick, shuffling, cautious steps forward.

Edward hated him for it.

"We invited you into our home," _our beautiful, massive, impressively furnished, entirely un-_burned_ home_, "for a reason." And Mustang could only be talking about that brilliant little boy, of course.

The one that was currently testing just how far he could shove his foot into his mouth.

"You see? He'll have my dashing good looks of course," Mustang's lips quirked fondly, and he tilted his head, looking at Edward through those contented, half-lidded eyes.

Edward figured he was supposed to respond to that, so he nodded half-heartedly and kicked his flesh foot against the rug.

He vaguely wondered how that carpet would feel on the only flesh appendage that he had left, because that plushy carpet looked damn soft, but he figured it wasn't worth taking his shoe off or bending down to rub his whole damn face against it.

"Edward, have you ever considered family of your own?" Edward started and glanced up at that.

No.

He'd tried family.

He'd fucked up family.

"I...don't think...I would be a very good father." The rest of the room had fallen silent, and listened closely to the exchange.

"Nonsense, I'm sure you would." Shows how much he knew. The bastard. "But we considered this when we were naming the baby, and knew that you may not be the settling type. So we took it upon ourselves to honor what you've lost."

"What I've...?"

"The name on the birth certificate," Mustang said, low and silky, "is Alphonse Maes Mustang." Edward inhaled sharply, eyes widening and lips moving wordlessly.

Hurt welled up inside of him, clogged his lungs and esophagus and eyes, and suddenly, the fire was all too stifling. Edward found it hard to breathe. He felt as if someone had just reopened a scab on his side, and the blood was welling out fresh, new, fluid – gushing red. It was a feeling he was all too familiar with and one that he didn't particularly mind, because in this moment, when his feelings were laid bare for the world to see, for this one moment when the pain may have been sharper than the rest, the hurt wasn't _eating_ away at him like a sore – constantly tearing at his insides, his heart and his mind.

In that moment, all of the feelings Edward had been harboring since his brother's death some two months earlier were spilled on the floor between him and Roy Mustang, between him and his enemy, between him and the man he couldn't quite fathom. It was Mustang who could make or break him at this point, so open as he was – Mustang who could choose to gather the pieces of his shattered soul and reassemble them, or to ground them into the carpet and _laugh_.

Edward waited, hands clenching with a tiny _clink_ ofmetal, like the toasting of crystal wineglasses, through the fabric of his gloves. Across the room, Maes – _Alphonse_ – giggled again, blissfully unaware as only a child could be, completely ignorant of the fact that his namesake was a cursed one.

The others in the room had melted away sometime ago, and Edward's vision tunneled carefully on the majestic figure in the royal blue uniform, backlit by the glow of a brilliant fire and standing tall and straight. The world must have been moving in slow motion then, because Roy's mouth opened, and though Edward had been anticipating words, he just couldn't understand what those lips were forming.

Abruptly, the world opened up again, and people were staring at him, concerned. He flushed and bowed his head, abruptly aware that he had been gaping at the Fuhrer from across the room. Roy Mustang, Fuhrer of I-Don't-Give-A-Damn.

He moved to gather his scattered emotions himself, for it was a puzzle whose pieces he knew all to well, and he could reassemble them over a soggy pillow in his empty dormitory room if Mustang was not going to do him the service of assisting him.

Whatever. He could fucking well do it on his own.

Riza mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "_ – you we should have asked him first – _" and Roy didn't even attempt to conceal his loud "– _Nonsense!_" And Edward had had quite enough.

"I've got to go," he muttered roughly, clasping one automail hand against his chest with the other again and feeling the cold metal bite through the thin fabric of his dress shirt. And he turned quickly, wincing at all the tiny sounds his automail foot made, because dress shoes just

didn't conceal them as well as boots. "C-congratulations!"

He was the first to leave footprints in the fresh snow outside, and he vaguely realized that once upon a time, that had meant something to him.

* * *

There was a wide bridge, wide enough for four cars to pass abreast on, at least, that Edward crossed nearly every day that he was in Central City. On one side lay the military headquarters, library, and dormitories. On the other lay the city and it's cultural hot spots, it's eateries and cafes, it's play and movie houses. You _had_ to cross the bridge to get from one side to the other, and he had certainly done so many times in his military career.

He hadn't really thought about the bridge before, though – but that was happening more and more now. Without the Philosopher's Stone, that great and constant presence hovering at his back and consuming all of his time and energy, it was as if he were seeing things everywhere for the first time. Had he been asked, he would have said that everything looked darker, despite the fact that there was no longer a great black shadow looming over them.

Edward had started across the bridge, and he paused on the sidewalk, snow fluttering around him in larger flakes as the wind angled them into something more fierce than an innocent December dusting. He was aware for the first time of the water beneath him too, and he peered over the guard rail, fascinated by the swirling white froth and the murky, gray depths.

It was bound to be freezing. The wind was blowing it crazy, and even someone who could swim properly would never make it out alive. It was just too wide, too wild. One would drown or catch hypothermia before anyone ever got to them.

And his automail would drag him down like a stone.

The final thought startled him, and he was surprised to find that his automail foot was well on it's way to mounting the third rail, his right hand clutching at the top rail for purchase.

He took a quick and desperate step off the rail and back into the road, so fast that had a car been approaching, he would have been dead anyway.

_Are you truly planning to jump?_

No. Edward Elric wasn't _suicidal_. Edward Elric, the People's Alchemist, was _strong_.

_But..._

He thought of Mustang's party, of the bubbling little black-haired tyrant in Riza's arms.

He thought of Winry and her handsome fiancé gushing over automail in Rush Valley.

He thought of Teacher's lovely funeral service.

He thought of Alphonse's soggy, breathless body – bloody and scrabbling at the floor in pain, with limbs and organs spilling from ragged tears in the papery skin, with malformed bones jutting from puckered sores like rotted tree roots, and with hair and eyes in places hair and eyes had no right to be.

He thought of that last desperate cry of, "Kill me! Please, Brother! It hurts –

_I want to die._

Was he truly planning to jump?

_Yes._

"FUCK!" He shouted to no one in particular, and his voice was drowned by the roar of the storm. He mounted the fence again just as quickly as he had left it, hurriedly getting his grip on the icy top rail as his feet scrabbled to climb the bars below. The guardrail beneath his hands was crumpling, groaning in protest as Edward's inhumanly strong fists closed around it. "Fuck." He bit his bottom lip and knew that he could end all this right now – the pain blossoming from his automail ports as well as the pain issuing in sharp, short pangs from his chest.

And it wouldn't be giving up – not really.

It was merely surrendering to the inevitable.

The gate had wanted him for an awfully long while, after all. Indeed, it had been taking him bit by bit, piece by piece for almost a decade. His mother, his flesh, his bone, his blood, and finally, only two long, long months ago, the Gate had taken his sanity.

_Well bastard_,he laughed, and climbed to the next rail with unbridled conviction, _you can have me._

Reaching a point at which he could jump was not as satisfying as he had once assumed that it would be, however. The angle granted him a much better vantage of the swirling depths below, and the cold air around him intensified suddenly from his summit.

Was he really such a coward?

Had he not stared death in the eyes so many times already?

He thought he had seen death a thousand times – in the red, red eyes of an Ishballan heretic, in his dull reflection on a blunt butcher's knife, in a puddle of blood and vomit at the feet of an ancient suit of armor – but he saw it here, too, in that navy ocean, only now, he couldn't think of a good reason to face it. His reaction was only to clench his fists tighter on the already straining rail, biting his bottom lip hard enough that he could taste metallic blood, and to shut his eyes tight enough that he didn't have to look into the face of oblivion.

_Edward._

He heard it, not really believing that he'd heard it, and something inside him tightened at the sound of his own name, whispered through the storm like that, dancing on the tips of snowflakes and falling right into his ears.

_Edward._

And was it his mother or his brother calling to him like that? Only two months, only a few years, and he had already forgotten the sound of his own name in their whispered voices. For years, Alphonse's voice had been the only sensory evidence of his little brother's existence, and it hurt to know that now, he didn't even have that.

_"Edward."_ Something about the word sounded more solid now, and Edward looked up, startled, searching for something, someone that wasn't there.

And finally it came again, and he realized that it was too harsh to be his mother or his brother, too close to be coming from the heavens – too real to be a dream.

"Edward Elric you get down from there this _instant_!" Edward turned abruptly, seeing there behind him a very solid and real Mustang, wrapped tightly in winter garb and blurred through the storm, hands held in front of him and beckoning, legs twitching as if he desperately wanted to move closer.

"Edward," Mustang's voice rang out again, clear as a bell above the storm, sounding slightly panicked. "Please, come here. Talk to me." Edward's head shook of it's own volition

and he turned, looking back at the swirling depths, though his ambitions had waned in their intensity with Mustang's sudden, unexpected appearance.

The wind kept blowing.

Edward didn't move.

"_Please_," Mustang pleaded suddenly. And the raw desperation threading the words made Edward turn sharply in surprise, which led to a very unfortunate domino effect.

At the sudden movement, the rail beneath Edward's fingers, which abruptly decided that it had taken enough abuse at the literal hands of Edward Elric, suddenly gave way, and Edward pitched forward, losing his footing on the icy rail beneath his feet. He desperately groped for purchase again, looking for a hand or foot hold that wasn't coated in a thin layer of deadly ice. The ice had accumulated beneath Mustang's feet too, and when he started his frantic full speed sprint toward Edward, he just couldn't seem to _stop_. He met the rails going at full speed, which jarred Edward and sent him toppling over the edge even as Mustang grasped desperately for the Fullmetal Alchemist's fluttering coattails.

It was a little bit surreal, suddenly losing his grip like that. One moment he was firmly on two feet, looking down, afraid. The next, he was floating, tumbling through the air, alternately looking down and then up at the turbulent waters. And then, when the world was moving in slow motion, everything fell into place.

Edward saw the black waters approaching, heard a manic _"EDWARD!"_ from somewhere above him, closed his eyes, and graciously opened his arms to greet death –

– just like he always had.

* * *

He had expected death to hurt more. Near-death certainly hurt. Near-death hurt like _hell_ if having his arm and leg ripped off, if getting slashed and shot and torn apart was any evidence of that. But it wasn't pain that washed over him as his automail dragged him down and down toward a bottom he couldn't see. Aside from the initial shock when he broke the surface of the water, it hadn't hurt any more than falling had. Really, he was just numb, and only vaguely aware of his lungs' persistent struggle to bring in air.

_So this is finally it then, eh?_

Blackness ate at his vision as his knuckles skimmed rock at the bottom of the river. There were no images of his family as death came for him, no flashbacks to a life once lived. All that Edward Elric could think about, as his vision blacked out completely and his body raised a small cloud of dust at the bottom of the river, was the desperate, pathetic, "_Please_," muffled through a warm gray scarf and distorted by the wind of a violent storm.

* * *

Edward awoke slowly, and it took him a long, muddled, _painful_ moment to realize that he shouldn't be awake at all.

"Edward? Edward, can you hear me? Alex, will you get me another blanket from the hall closet?"

"Of course."

_Black waters rushing to meet him –_

"Edward?"

_Sinking to the bottom like a stone and oh _god–

"Edward, I know you're awake."

_He should be _dead.

"Lemme 'lone," he ground out, all gravel and sandpaper and bitterness, too much bitterness because just why in the _hell_ couldn't they have left him be, let him have his death, let him be at _peace_ for once in his godforsaken life?

"Everyone is worried about you." "Everyone" hadn't been "worried" enough to follow him out of the Fuhrer's party when he'd left earlier, now had they?

"Screw...screw allayou." A firm, calloused, feminine hand came to rest on his forehead and it felt like fire.

"Shh, Edward, I'm sure you're tired. Just rest." There were footsteps, loud and blundering and utterly _obnoxious_ and what the hell were people doing fucking stepdancing, fucking clogging on the bedroom floor? He clenched his eyes shut, and his head was _pounding_.

"Here you are Riza." Another weight on him – but wasn't he suffocating already?

"Shh, Alex, I think he's hit his head. He's not feeling well right now. I think we should leave him be for a while." And there was more pain now, too much. Dying hadn't felt like this – it had felt good and right.

"Are you sure that's wise...?"

"I should check on the baby anyway – and I think he needs to be alone."

He did need to be alone. He did. And the fact that questions about Mustang were on the tip of his swollen tongue did nothing to contradict that.

* * *

An argument outside his door, the first time he'd heard Mustang's voice since the bridge. The last time he would hear it before the bastard left again.

"Is he asleep?"

"Yes, Roy. He's asleep."

"Riza. I – don't know if you can understand what...I...but we...we need to do this for him. I wouldn't feel right not letting him stay here after...after the par – "

"Roy, it wasn't the party! It wasn't our son – it wasn't my fault and it wasn't yours. Perhaps the party was some sort of...of breaking point, but this was obviously a result of...I don't know, repressed anguish. The fact is, this started building _years_ before we met him! Edward...didn't have the most wonderful childhood – "

"– _What_ fucking childhood– "

"– Things happened to him, terrible things, Roy, and despite how responsible you may feel about it, it _isn't your fault_. He climbed that railing all on his own."

"I know...I know...but..."

A shuffling of fabric, a sigh, and then the voices were muffled.

"He can stay, Roy. He can stay for a while, and that's fine. It's only...I had thought I could devote this time to you and the baby, but Edward is like an infant right now. He needs constant attention, or he would just languish and let himself die."

"He'll be back on his feet again, you'll see. He's only hit a rough spot."

"I hope so."

Edward turned over and tried to sleep, but it was hard. Knowing he wasn't wanted always was, even if he was used to it.

* * *

Fuhrer Roy Mustang left for Drachma, and it snowed.

He didn't so much as bid the Fullmetal Alchemist, currently residing in a second floor guest room, farewell. Edward saw him go from his window, looked out over the bleached front lawn to see him kissing his wife and baby farewell on the lips and the forehead respectively. Then he climbed into his sleek black car and set off, down the mile-long driveway and out of sight.

Hawkeye remained on the front lawn for a moment longer, wind whipping her hair and skirt, and Ed couldn't help but think it was a horribly familiar image, a mother with a baby in her arms, waving goodbye to the man she loved.

All the picture needed was another little boy tugging at her dress.

By the time Edward had cleared himself of that little thought, Hawkeye was gone from the front lawn and knocking on his door. When he didn't answer, she carefully unlocked it, turning the skeleton key in the old, normally unused lock as quietly as possible, but Edward still heard the audible grind and then _click_ that he had become familiar with over the past few days.

It was a symbolic thing – they all knew very well that he was perfectly capable of blowing the whole building down, let alone a lousy _door_. They wanted him to know very well that he was to stay put, right where he was, because they were _concerned_, because they _loved_ him.

Because they didn't want him to jump off a fucking bridge again.

And Edward humored them, because he had nowhere better to be, and it wasn't as if he wanted to try it again. He had lost his nerve entirely after the first attempt. Dying had felt right, certainly, but the gut-wrenching lead-up to the actual _dying_ part had been overwhelming. He hadn't been able to do it on his own on the first attempt, and what made them think that he would have changed since then?

He found it rather ironic that they didn't know he was in fact pushed into the water by one Roy Mustang, who, no doubt, came back with an unconscious boy in his arms and a heroic tale to tell. He probably just left out that tiny little detail. After all, what kind of victory story began with, _"I pushed an innocent boy into the river today. It was purely accidental, of course, and I did fish him back out again..."_

Pathetic bastard.

When Riza's face appeared in the doorway, Edward merely gave her a blank stare.

Just because he was sharing her house didn't mean he had to cooperate with her.

"Good morning, Edward," she smiled warmly. "Roy told me to apologize for not saying goodbye." A pause, and then, briskly, "How about we get you some breakfast?" Edward again responded with silence, turning away and flopping into the downy pillows with an airy _whoosh_.

Riza sighed tiredly at Edward's display of obstinance and crossed the room in a few smooth, practiced steps. "Edward, I don't think you realize how much you frightened us." Edward shut his eyes as she leaned over him, tenderly brushing away the hair on his forehead. Only a month as a mother and Hawkeye already thought she was an expert? Already thought she could be his mother too? Already had the _nerve_ to press her cheek to his forehead to read his temperature like his mother always did?

_She had absolutely no right._

The baby started crying from somewhere far, far off and he felt Riza's hand twitch in alarm. He could tell that she was using all the self-restraint she had to not go to her child, her_ real _child, right then. She stayed with him because she had to, and not because she wanted to, much like everyone else he knew.

"I'm tired," Edward said, monotone, quiet, granting her the release he knew she wanted.

"I see." She didn't need another prompt – she immediately moved back and picked up the skeleton key from the nightstand. "I'll be back in a little while, then."

On her way out, she locked the door.

* * *

_Reading a book with circles and symbols with Alphonse at his back –_

_Painting a masterpiece, and Alphonse whining, _Brother's is always better, mother, why can't I –

_Outside of Winry's and they were laughing, streaking across the countryside, the three of them, and just not caring – _

_Eating dinner and Alphonse flung an olive at him, hitting Edward right in the forehead and their mother stifled a laugh –_

_Riding on a train to the middle of nowhere, but at least he had his brother there to –_

_Coughing, too much, and there was a gauntlet on his forehead, water at his lips –_

_It was an easy game to cheat at, so he did, cards up his sleeve and his brother was shouting –_

_– Brother!_

_Brother!_

_Brother!_

_It hurts!_

_Screaming himself hoarse, and there was blood on the floor –_

Edward awoke abruptly with a wet face and shredded bedsheets, wondered what kind of a world it was where he couldn't find solace in his dreams.

* * *

The baby was crying next door again, so loudly that Edward thought he might go mad. He had a pounding headache, and the sound of that infantile whine, so high and miserable, was enough to make Ed want to go in there, leave his comfortable nest of sheets and blankets, and _shake_ him.

_You've got nothing to cry about_, he wanted to say. _You've got everything I ever wanted and can never have._

A mother. A home. Innocence.

A fucking _father_.

Edward clenched his eyes shut, willed away the pounding in his head, and concentrated on the lullaby Riza was singing instead.

* * *

A day later, Edward escaped. It wasn't hard to do, locked door or no. Edward merely transmuted his way through the solid oak (and the wall of broken promises it created) and calmly made his way down the grand staircase, past the kitchen where he picked up an apple, then into the main foyer where he stole the Fuhrer's greatcoat. He took one last look around the decadent

hallway and then opened the door, took an enormous crunching bite from the apple that echoed hollowly in the still corridor, and casually strolled into the blizzard raging outside.

He didn't look back.

He spent the first of the night where he should have been sleeping – a tiny military dormitory room with two beds. One of the beds had broken springs, but Edward slept there anyway, because if he buried his head into the pillow far enough, he could almost smell metal

and blood, and he could almost pretend that the metal in his back was spikes and not springs. His bed lay cold, empty, and unused on the other side of the room – made with lovingly folded corners and perfectly tucked sheets, just as it had been for nearly two months.

Toward one or two, though, Edward got up, having just noticed that he was not tired and that his automail was aching miserably as it was wont to do in the cold. He winced at the touch of cold floor beneath his foot and of the night air on his bare back. Then, he made his way across the tiny room, slowly, gait uneven and rough while his leg adjusted to walking in the cold.

Also untouched in his dormitory was everything in the kitchen but his percolator – a precious gift from Lieutenant Hawkeye (back when she was indeed still a Lieutenant) – it seemed he lived off of coffee these days, which wasn't healthy, he knew. He just wouldn't acknowledge it until someone had to tell him first. That was the way he had always been after all – he hadn't changed, only the fact that there was no one around to tell him had.

He continued his restless pilgrimage across the dormitory, from the window on the wall opposite the door, to the tiny kitchenette, to the door, to the bed, to the door, to the window, to the wall calendar with pictures of Xingan lanterns for August of last year, because he simply hadn't bothered to change the month since then and he rather liked the lanterns anyway. Eventually, that space got to be too small, the room too stuffy, the scenery too dull, so he ventured into the hallway – _swish, **thump**, swish, **thump **_– barefoot, pajama-bottomed, wearing nothing of any real protection but the Fuhrer's greatcoat.

The hallway of the military dormitory building was no model of fashion, no treat to the eye, but he walked it anyway, casually leaving dents in the wall where his right hand took to applying too much pressure. He thought, idly, that it was nice walking like this. And then a thought struck him – why stop with the hallway? The world was his fucking hallway. Edward drifted on down the corridor.

There were a few other occupants of the dorm awake, mostly the worthless, newly recruited foot soldiers that were far too big for their britches. They looked at him like a ghost as he passed, and he didn't blame them. He had seen from the glimpses he had gotten of himself over the past few days that he was gaunt as an apparition and deathly pale – his golden tan had drained from him faster than his vitality once Alphonse died. He imagined that he had lost his color the moment he saw Al there, writhing on the floor, and he just never got it back.

Before long, Edward saw who but Kain Fuery sluggishly making his way down the hall in the general direction of the latrine, yawning and rubbing his glasses askew. Edward was _very_ careful to avoid him as he made his way for the front door – because Fuery would _tattle_. Little-pansyass–

"Edward? Is that you?" And of course it was him. Who else on this godforsaken military compound had three automail limbs? His heart skipped a beat. "Edward, I thought you were still at the Mustangs'?" Who else creaked and clanged every time they _moved_?

Fuery was moving toward him now, hand outstretched.

_"Edward. Please come here. Talk to me."_

No. Edward wouldn't go back to a place where he wasn't wanted. Edward didn't want to _talk_. _Talking_ never made anything better. Panicked, he took off running down the hallway, stumbling once or twice initially, but gaining momentum as the gears and bones in his left and right legs (respectively) started to cooperate.

Fuery shouted after him, even managed stumble to the door, but Edward had been jumpy lately, more than he ever had before, fearful that something was going to snap at him and maybe take something else away.

It was the little things that set him off like a Xingan firecracker.

He hit the bridge he knew too well and kept running, too far gone to care if he stopped or not, if his lungs were shriveling up and begging or not, if he got hit by a car as he sprinted

drunkenly down the center of the road. He passed the final turret of the bridge and crossed into a district that never slept, where red lights flashed through window panes and warehouses turned into something much more sinister. He kept running, past the filth that lurked in the streets of Central at night, receiving a number of crude catcalls which he determinedly ignored.

He stopped somewhere past the Red Light District and leaned against a wall, panting hard and shivering slightly. Ahead of him was a forked road. The left fork took a sharp circular turn and ran along the river straight back to the bridge and it's deadly black waters. It was lit even now, so late at night, with lanterns and festive decorations for the Winter Solstice. The right led straight into the tourist's haven near the train station, a cramped alley lined with street vendors (whose stands were packed away neatly now) that led straight to the glorious station itself. Edward squinted at the dim light glowing at the end of the alley, then turned to the brilliantly lit river promenade.

_Heh. There's irony for you_, Edward thought bitterly.

Naturally, the person hanging those lanterns had foreseen his arrival here through space and time, and had conspired to make those waters look all the more tempting.

The eery silence of the street was broken by the resounding _crack _of Edward's knees hitting the pavement as he fell to the ground, shaking, feeling as if his body had given up on him, as if it had finally just said _enough's fucking enough _after all the shit that Ed had put it through. His chest rose and fell slowly as he tried to gather his wits enough to get on his feet again and

push forward. His blood and breathing played cruel a symphony in his ears, his vision blurred and faded more every time he blinked.

"What the hell do you want me to _do_?" He said on a breath, ghostly and broken words that only the cobblestones beneath him could hear.

* * *

This was part one. Part two is partially written, and it will be Mustang's POV on the whole affair, and hopefully the ending. I may be lame and stretch it out more, though. Spring break is in one week, so I'm hoping that I'll have the time to write soon. :3 I really miss having free time. T.T 

In the mean time, review! 8D


	16. Son

Saying that this took me a long time is probably an understatement. My only reasonable excuse is that this bugger was never _meant _to be this long. Seriously, it just will NOT end. When I started this idea, I was like...yeah okay, Al's dead, I've done it all before, yadda yadda yadda. But when I started getting into Roy's POV (and OH geez, poor Roy and all the shit I put him through!) it's just so complex, and it really isn't something you can just _end _on a dot. There are so many emotions attached to the main themes of this story -- new life and death, and I feel like I'm doing neither justice with this slipshod little piece, but goodness knows, I am _trying_.

This is part two. Part three is 90 percent written (I swear to God, everyone, this is no lie). I was planning to post the two pieces at once when I was finished, but I am leaving for Oregon tomorrow to spend a week on the beach with my family (yay!) and I figured that the finished piece (which will be about 16,000 words, I think) is probably a bit long for one chunk anyway and I am cruel for making you wait as long as I have anyway. So here are the first 7,500 words of Roy's POV.

**Warnings:** For this section, there are still suicidal intentions and some heavy themes, language (though the REAL swearing party doesn't start until part three, let me tell you. XD;;), character death, and some kinda gross imagery.

**Notes:** I will not claim to be an expert on child development, because quite frankly, I know NOTHING about babies. All the stuff about lil' Al in here is me and my best friend, good old fashioned BS. Baby Alphonse really shouldn't be developing this quickly, I don't think.

This whole section will switch between present/past/present/past, etc. to tell the whole story as Roy saw it. I just wanted to clarify.

Enjoy! ♥

* * *

There were only two words on the telegram, and had Roy decided to return to his room early, had he not bothered to read the dregs of the documents lining his makeshift desk, he never would have seen them. 

"_Edward's gone_," it said, and he knew that handwriting like his own heartbeat. It was slanted and slipshod in haste, and the paper it was written on was frayed around the edges, but was Riza's. It was his wife's.

_Damn!_

He thought, distantly, as he scurried around the embassy barking orders at his men and gathering what little he had brought along with him, that it had been horribly _selfish_ to leave his family. But the country didn't stop for a newborn baby, the country didn't stop because one surrogate son had attempted suicide (_suicide!_), or because the other had tragically died a few months earlier.

Selfishly, Amestris kept going, and selfishly, Roy did, too.

He stomped down the hallway, garnered men and clothing as he went along. By the time he reached the door, he had a small troop behind him, their lips locked but eyes glowing in fierce inquiry, as well as a warm fur-lined hat to wear against the Drachman chill and a heavy trench that he had put on inside-out.

Really. He was absolutely _useless _without Riza.

"Someone...get...get me a car!" He shouted lamely, flustered. He ran a hand through his hair, closed his eyes, and waited for someone to jump. He was the Fuhrer, after all. Someone, inevitably, would. "And a train! For Central! I want a fucking search party waiting at the station when I get back!"

"Fuhrer Mustang," a gruff, accented voice rang through above his inner turmoil, and he snapped his eyes open, stood ramrod straight.

He eyed the stripes on the man's – a Drachman soldier's – shoulder before letting out an only slightly strangled, "General."

"Permission to speak freely, Fuhrer Mustang?" Roy waved a dismissive hand.

"Granted, granted." All this stuffy formality made him miss his subordinates smoking, drinking, slacking in the office. Made him miss his swearing, spitting, shouting Fullmetal Alchemist.

"Fuhrer, your business at the embassy isn't done. Peace negotiations have only just begun. The negotiations necessitate your presence here. Without you – "

Roy's heart beat faster and waves of red pulsed around him. He seethed. Who was this man to deny him his _family_?

"Without you," he continued, eyes flashing dangerously, "Drachma may be obliged to withdraw its previous offer."

Roy, vision still clouded by undulating red, snapped his naked fingers in his pocket (_burn, burn, burn, burn, _burn) and translated. 'Without you, Drachma may be obliged to set off those bombs we planted in the capital city. Drachma may be obliged to open fire on the city we've surrounded in the south. Drachma may be obliged to invade your fucking country and win this time, Mustang. Because we _could_, you know. We could kill _everyone_.'

Images of a limp and freezing Edward flashed into his mind, images of his own tears falling to join the water tracing the lines on his face (_Breathe, goddammit! Please breathe for me Edward, please, just breathe and I swear to God – _) and they overlapped with a laughing, shouting, smiling Edward to create a garish collage of self-loathing for what he was about to say.

"Of course, General."

_I'm so, so sorry._

"Let's finish up then, shall we?"

* * *

"Colonel!" 

He could hear him stampeding around in the outer office long before he ever made it through Havoc and into Roy's grandiose, window-lined keep, identifiable through his raised tones and stubborn tendency to call Roy by a rank he'd left nearly two years earlier.

Roy smiled slightly to hear the boy, neglected rank or not – he'd been caught up in his research as of late, too busy, even, to take the time to annoy Roy's office staff.

_I'm on to something. _He'd said at Roy's wedding reception, months ago. _That last mission you sent me on wasn't _total_ shit. _And then, if Roy recalled correctly, he'd gone to dance with Riza in her beautiful white dress, and he'd looked so utterly grown up in his dignified formal wear and swaying ponytail that Roy had felt like a proud father.

_Maybe someday,_ Roy mused, _Fullmetal will be dancing with a bride of his own._

_Maybe someday, Alphonse will too._

And with that thought, the door burst open, and a flushed, ecstatic Edward with a crumpled piece of paper in one hand and forgotten shards of an excitement-smashed pencil in the other bounded in. It took him a grand total of three leaps to cross the rather large space between the door and Roy's desk, and that included the poor leather couch that now sported a rather large boot print on the center cushion. The piece of paper was obstructing his view of the boy before he even had a chance to make a snide comment on his disheveled appearance.

"_Look!_" He said urgently. And Roy, obediently, looked.

Almost immediately, his jaw went slack.

On the piece of paper was the most intricate, beautiful,_ brilliant _array he'd ever seen. It was unlike any array he'd studied before, more of a piece of art than anything. The curving, sloping, intersecting lines would seem to be, to a casual passerby, just that. But Roy knew better. He knew that each intersection served a purpose, that every gently winding line had been tediously placed, that every thickness of every arc had been measured _precisely_ to scale. This had taken Edward months to complete, which said something in and of itself. Most arrays that Edward dreamed up were spur of the moment, I'm-doing-this-to-save-my-ass arrays. He could think up an array for any situation in seconds which was a talent that most alchemists dreamed of. But this array, this perfect array, had been drafted and drawn and redrawn and erased, had been sweated over and dreamed of for months.

Because this array would make his little brother, and any array serving that purpose would have to be absolutely flawless.

"Well!?"

"Fullmetal. It's." _You're a genius. For fuck's sake, I'm lucky to know you._

"I found a way to utilize...to utilize emotional energy!" He said breathlessly, and Roy looked into his face, all pale, drawn lines and black bags under his eyes. All wide grin and glowing eyes and red cheeks.

Such a handsome young man. He'd grown.

"Y'see all the curves!? There's not a straight line in there, 'cept for that one down the center, but that's how I'm going to summon the gate, see. That one that cuts through all the others symbolizes the gate, but those arcs will be drawing from me 'n Al. That's where I'll pull all the energy from!

"The Gate wants a sacrifice, so I can give it something! It's something of substance too, y'know. I mean. Love isn't tangible or nothing, but hell, it's there! And between Al n' me it's fuckin' endless! I say, have some of it! It's inexhaustible! Love is inexhaustible, Mustang! That's the fuckin' beauty of it!" He took a deep breath and just beamed. Roy's mouth went dry.

"So this means...?"

"It does! It finally does! I'm going to make everything right again!" He snatched his array away from Roy and danced a jig around his desk, cradling it to his chest. Roy wanted to be ecstatic. He wanted to be excited for Edward and Alphonse. With Edward and Alphonse. But at the back of his mind, there was a niggling sense of fear at the prospect of this new, untested alchemy. Edward was gambling a lot with a chancy move, and the stakes were so very high. Roy gulped hard, swallowed his doubt, and put on a grin.

"I'm so happy for you," Roy said in a hushed tone, and Ed stopped dancing.

He looked at him then with golden eyes filled with tears, and Roy knew precisely what Edward had meant when he'd claimed love was inexhaustible.

* * *

Back in his suite at the embassy, and he was _tired_. Alone, he let his shoulders slump and his uniform crinkle, undignified. Riza's voice came to him across the distance, reprimanding – _I just ironed that, Roy. I swear – you'll turn me into a housewife, yet._

He couldn't recall ever being this tired as a Colonel, but now the exhaustion ran bone deep and left an unpleasant residual ache in his joints. He couldn't seem to shake this.

He flopped unceremoniously onto his bed and spread his arms and legs wide, stretching. His eyelids drooped ominously (_like lecture days back at the academy_) but a tiny voice at the back of his mind said, not yet. Just a little longer, a little farther – an argument he had grown tired of long, long ago.

Nevertheless, it was enough to rouse him, and he rolled off the heavenly sheets and toward the phone on the other side of the room.

He would soldier on for his family. Everyone else could go fuck themselves.

He sat heavily by the phone and dialed the number to his office in Central – if he knew his wife at all, if he knew his subordinates at all, he knew that there would be no sleep tonight.

"Fuhrer Mustang's office. Lieutenant Colonel Havoc speaking."

"Jean, just talk to me, please. I've been dealing with ranks and formality all day. I don't think I could stand it if you started it, too."

"Shit, Boss. You're just the man we've been waiting for. Though I did expect to see you here – "

"I know," a heavy, burdened exhale. "You have no idea how badly I wanted to be there, how badly I still want to be there – "

"We haven't found him." Havoc said, suddenly sullen. "They won't grant us the search party we requested – "

"Get them on the fucking line and I'll –"

"Fullmetal is currently off duty for – er – medical reasons. So I guess he's just... not their priority right now. Since he went a little – " Havoc continued stumbling over his words for moment before Roy kindly interjected with, "Since he tried to kill himself."

"Yeah. That." Havoc cleared his throat uncomfortably as Roy rubbed the bridge of his nose with two tense fingers, longing to feel the starchy quality of his gloves there – hell. He hadn't even brought gloves with him, had he? The comfy life was making him soft.

"And Riza?"

"At home with the kid. In case Ed shows up."

"What are you doing to find him?"

"I'm manning the phone here, everyone else is out. We've recruited a few who knew the Chief to look, but Central's big and – the Chief isn't so big. Plus, he's got some tricks up his sleeve if he doesn't want to be found."

Roy closed his eyes, let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, "What if he's – ?" _– tried the same thing again. What if he's already dead? _

It was quiet and strained, and judging from Havoc's terse, pained response, the troop in Central had been thinking the exact same thing.

"We've got a team on the banks of the river."

"...of course."

There was a tense silence in which the gentle clacking of a lighter's lid sounded mechanically out of the receiver, and then Havoc exhaled with a shaky sort of relief.

"I'll be home tomorrow," Roy said quietly.

"Don't rush yourself. Those negotiations are important, Boss."

Roy went on as if he hadn't heard. "I'll see you then."

"Yeah. See you Boss."

* * *

"Riza..." 

"Go to sleep."

"Do you think they're alright?"

"I'm very tired, Roy." Roy turned to lay on his back and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Next to him, Riza laboriously rolled to face him and sighed heavily. "I rather wanted to get some sleep tonight."

"Edward is gambling everything he has on this."

"It will work," she replied, drowsy but firm.

"I know. I know it will."

"You don't act like you do." Roy closed his eyes and rubbed hard at the lids. _That's because I don't._

"They're doing it at the warehouse on the promenade. It's not far. Maybe I could slip in and see..."

Riza's voice went slightly reprimanding. "They'll want this moment for themselves."

"But what if something happened? They're all alone over there. They might need something."

"You're not going to let me sleep until you see them for yourself, are you?"

He hesitated. "…Not a wink."

"Then go." Oh God, he loved her. He loved her, he loved her, he loved her. He didn't know why it seemed necessary to seek her permission for this, but since she couldn't go with him anymore, asking seemed like the next best thing.

He threw the covers back and went after the closest available piece of clothing – his uniform – before she had a chance to renege on the offer. In bed, Riza shivered once and hugged the bedding close, curling into an enchanting little ball around her swollen stomach.

"They're fine, you know," she said, yawning and closing her eyes again.

"No harm in checking," Roy chirped as he buttoned his white dress shirt. After, he tentatively eyed the formal military jacket slung over the back of the chair. The heavy thing was so lined with medals now that it jingled when he moved, and the royal blue material itself was starched stiff and obtrusive. But it could get him anywhere he wanted to be – as utterly uncomfortable as it was, the stars and stripes on either shoulder were invaluable.

He put it on. The elbows crinkled familiarly when he bent them, and the collar's gentle chafe against his neck was like going home. Hell. His testosterone still seemed hell-bent on sending him on a power trip every time he did up those buttons. Strike the 'invaluable' thought, the stars and stripes on either shoulder just surged through his brain and fueled everything masculine he had in him. Wearing that stiff blue uniform made a man feel_ powerful_.

Staggering power trip over with and resulting adrenaline rush locked away for future use, Roy made to leave the bedroom. He bent over at Riza's back as he picked up his gloves from the bedside table and gave her a gentle peck on the cheek.

"I'm sure I'll be back very soon."

"Be careful."

"Of course."

"Do say hello to Alphonse for me."

Roy had the decency to blush lightly. "You know I had only intended to slip in and out." Riza grinned without opening her eyes.

"We both know that a part of you is just curious."

"...Well aren't you? Aren't we all?"

"I had always wondered if he has Edward's striking eyes."

The doting father in Roy grinned like a madman. "If he did, he'd be a lady-killer. Edward's looks and his charming temperament? He'd be fighting them off in hordes." Riza only smiled. Roy suddenly had the urge to drag his camera from its case, to document all of the things that were happening, all of the things that were changing.

He struck the thought from his mind and scowled when he realized that Maes had to be somewhere, watching, cradling a picture of his daughter close, and laughing at him. He pecked Riza on the cheek again and strode briskly toward the door.

"Get some sleep."

"I will. Oh – and Roy?"

"Yes?"

"Since you're going out, could you pick up some watermelon on the way home?"

"Watermelon."

"Yes. And maybe some sardines, as well."

"...Of course, Riza," he said fondly.

He made a mental note to dig the camera out of the hall closet first thing in the morning and didn't care at all that he could almost hear Maes laughing harder now.

* * *

Another day. Things moved painfully slow for the first few hours as both sides argued over the most absolutely menial things that they could think of. A chunk of border land here, a war declaration technique there – paragraph A plus clause B equals morning, then afternoon – weather turning slowly south – and still no sign of Edward. Toward noon things started to move along more quickly, as papers were finally, _finally_ being signed and Roy was almost free. So close he could taste it. 

Four o'clock, and all that was left was to conclude the goddamn meeting, formally wish the Fuhrer of Amestris adieu, and the Xingan representative suggested they take_ a late_ _lunch_. Enthusiastic replies resounded around the table, and Roy had had quite enough. He neatly, casually let his fist fall onto the table with a mighty thunk, then made a show of checking his watch when the leaders turned to look at him.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me, I do have a newborn boy at home. My train – "

"Really! Imagine! Mustang, a family man."

"Yes so it would seem – "

"Never thought you would settle!"

"Who's the lucky woman, Roy?"

Roy stood and reached for his scarf. "Ah – Riza Hawkeye. She was my subordinate. She transferred from my direct command sometime ago, though. Certainly you remember her from our last visit?"

"Ah yes, she is a lovely lady, Fuhrer. And quite a firecracker, if I remember correctly! Truly deserving of a legacy such as yours!" Most of the old, bulbous men around the room guffawed hugely. Roy quietly buttoned the top notch on his uniform jacket.

"So you have a baby, Mustang?"

"How old? I shall ask my wife to send a gift!"

"I do indeed. He's nearly a month now."

"What's his name?"

Roy swallowed hard and focused on the crest etched into the table. "Alphonse."

"An unusual name for a boy today, Mustang. Rather old fashioned, don't you think?"

Roy's temper flared briefly, and his words came out stone cold. "The name is rather dear to us."

"...My apologies."

"Do you have other children, Fuhrer?"

Roy froze at the question, just as he was picking up his coat from the back of his chair.

"Yes. Yes, I have – " he choked on the next word. "Two boys. Two other boys – and...I've almost lost both of them."

No one seemed to have a response to that, and Roy took advantage of the quiet moment to fumble with his coat. Hand through sleeve, tab A, slot B – this would be so much more simple if his damned eyes would stop blurring.

Suddenly, "Fuhrer, I myself have three little girls at home." A hand landed on his shoulder, and the representative of Creta looked him gently in the eye. "I also have a chauffeur outside. Would you care to use my vehicle?"

Roy slipped his arm into his coat, wiped his eyes with the sleeve, and smiled gratefully. Really, it was little wonder Creta was their ally.

* * *

The warehouse was foggy when he went in, smoke so thick and acrid he could hardly breathe. His eyes watered like mad, and he had to put the thick shirtsleeve of his uniform over his mouth before he ever ventured into the room. The smoke was tinged with something familiar, though – ozone, just a wisp of it – and little arcs of lightning still coursed out in front of him, burning themselves onto his retinas. 

In. Out. Just check in on the boys.

He desperately missed the presence that should have been at his back, that had been in the matters of the Elrics all of his life. Those warm hands, that gentle shadow was safe and sleeping at home, but that didn't stop him from missing her all the more. Without Riza, there was no one to keep him solid, and if this had gone wrong, if Edward had failed, Roy didn't know how he would manage to stay grounded without her.

Roy had no idea how incredibly large the warehouse was going to be until he had to explore it blind. He kept to the wall, groping around for the next handhold with lax fingers – this situation would not require force, he hoped, but he had brought his gloves along. The gentle chafing on over-sensitized skin (oh and he could feel the waves of thick, roiling smoke assaulting his skin; could feel the beads of sweat making their course down his face and into his collar) was relaxing.

It was then that he heard a sound above the din of his own blood in his ears. Wet shuffling; slapping noises; a low, wild, animal groan; and he thought, _oh shit_.

_This cannot be good. _

He was leaving the sanctity of his wall-guide before he knew what was happening. He couldn't hear another voice, just those soft slaps against the pavement and as he moved toward the center of the room, persistent, breathy gasping. He ran then, not daring to call out to them, to his _boys_, too afraid of someone shouting back an answer he did not want to hear.

_They're fine, they're fine, they're fine, they're fine, they're –_

Chalk dust ground under his foot and the arcing beams of light came faster here at the eye of the storm. All too soon, what he had thought to be ragged breaths resolved into words –

"Please Brother, it hurts – "

_They're fine, they're fine, they're fine, they're fine!_

The next step forward, and all was dark. The breathing (pleas that he refused to acknowledge) guided him, and he could have lit something, could have started a fire to see by, but shit he was too _scared_.

As he stepped in something wet, a beam of light zig-zagged it's way through air in front of him, and Roy looked down before he could remind himself that that was probably a very bad idea.

The light only lasted a heartbeat, but the residual burn was enough to see the pulsating pile of human flesh, was enough to show him what gruesome mess he would be smelling if the ozone didn't do a damn good job of hiding it –

– was enough to show him what exactly had become of Alphonse Elric.

_Fuck. _

If his eyes had been watering before, they were streaming now as he leaned to the side, went down on his knees, and vomited.

* * *

"How far is it to Central?" 

"Sir we – we've only just crossed the northern border. We're still a good six hours away."

"Step on it, corporal."

"Sir I'm – I'm already pushing the safe limit for these roads."

"You're driving the Fuhrer of Amestris, corporal. If you are traveling at a snail's pace to avoid a speeding ticket, I can assure you that you can put your mind at ease."

"Um, sir, I'm not sure I understand."

"Step on it, corporal. That's an order."

A sudden revving of the engine and then the wind on Roy's face in the back seat increased exponentially in its force.

A ghost of a smirk flitted its way across his face.

* * *

The mess around Mustang oozed out in a slow circle, mingled gradually with the mangled mess that was Alphonse. Roy had thought that there would be no living without the Elrics, that somehow, if something like this ever happened, time would just stop and everyone would cease to exist with them. Lord knew that Edward and Alphonse deserved that much at least, because for Ed to have to look at his little brother like this, like he had had to look at his mother all those years ago – for Ed to have to realize that he had failed _again _– was a fate worse than death. 

But time didn't stop. It inched on at a slow crawl, the vomit soaked into his shoes, and Alphonse heaved like every breath was agony.

"A-Alphonse," Roy ground out through the gravel in his throat. The panting became more insistent.

"Mister Mustang," the words were a hiss that lingered dangerously on the "s" sound like they were being spoken through a mouthful of fangs. The tone, however, pained as it was, was familiar. Comfortable. Roy was back in the office, suddenly, and there was a blushing teenager and a suit of armor in front of him, and the moisture in his shoes was from a coffee pot he had tipped over that morning, and Alphonse said, "My brother, please excuse my brother – "

A spark of alchemical lightning and he was back.

"My brother," the burbling mess said. "Please." Roy could tell that each word, each syllable was ripping at its would-be throat, was painful and difficult.

"Alphonse, is there something I can do to help you?" And in the mess of bubbling flesh, suddenly an eye, strong brown and green and gold and every inch an Elric feature (_but not Ed's eye, something at the back of his mind provided)_, resolved. Roy felt sick again.

"No," the word cut off in a pained choke and more heavy breathing, and Roy waited for Alphonse to compose himself as much as possible given the situation, focusing on that eye, before he continued. "No please. Brother – "

Oh God, oh God, _Edward_.

"Where is he?"

"I think – he's given something else – "

"Where is he!?"

"The edge...the edge of – " Alphonse cut off in a warbling, unearthly wail, and the heap of flesh trembled like a leaf in a high wind.

Roy turned to the outside of the circle and nearly gave himself whiplash in the process. He couldn't see properly in the hazy, ethereal half-light, and so he did the only thing he could think to do – he got down on his knees and _crawled_, shouted back encouragement to Alphonse even as he groped for some sign of Edward Elric. When his hand landed in another warm, congealing puddle and he recalled Alphonse's shaky insistence that his brother had _given something else, _Roy knew he had found what he was looking for.

He took off his gloves and gently felt his way up the warm body (_oh God, still warm, thank you thank you thank you_) – there was the automail leg and the real one, the sharp sturdy hipbone, the hard, flat planes of his torso and chest and then –

Oh God.

Automail on one side and that was right, but the other ended ragged, ropy muscles, a hard nub of bone, and warm blood that oozed out onto his hand with each feeble heartbeat. He took off his treasured uniform jacket without thinking, pressed it hard into the bleeding stump as basic training from ages ago crept to the forefront of his mind. He made to fashion a tourniquet, but his hands were too shaky, the area was too awkward. What was left of the shoulder was too slippery with blood. He made due with picking him up and putting the wounded side to his front, applying pressure with the force of his chest and stomach and gingerly carrying the boy toward the mess of his brother. He couldn't see the face properly, but the lack of response aside from the soft _ah _when he'd first applied pressure to the wound indicated unconsciousness or shock.

Maybe it was better that way.

_Please don't wake up, Edward._

Roy knew that if Edward woke now, he would never be able to leave. He would be in that godforsaken warehouse until Edward had lost every bone in his body. He would probably give every bone in his own, as well, and that wasn't acceptable.

Alphonse's breathing had an edge of a desperate whine by the time Roy had inched his way back.

"Alphonse! Stay with me," he begged, and his voice was not his own. It was high and shaking and panicked, seconds from breaking down completely. "Edward! He can fix this!"

"NO!" The strength behind the roar shocked Roy into a startled disquiet, and he pressed Ed closer, focused on that singular eye, which focused on the weak, dying form of his brother. "If Brother – ah – wakes up, he'll lose more. Kill me – tell him to – to live with what he has left."

"Alphonse. He'll...he'll _hate_ me."

"_Please._ He can't fix _this_."

"Alphonse – "

"He's not – he's not immortal, regardless of what he thinks."

"He can bind your soul again, surely! He can buy more time!"

"With what? Pieces of himself? It cost him an arm last time, how much does he really have left to be taken!? Besides. Maybe. Maybe I'd rather not go back to that life." That meek admission startled Roy a little, and he was so, so very glad Edward hadn't been awake to hear it.

"Please. Don't ask me to do this."

"Mr. Mustang. It _hurts._" Roy's mouth snapped shut around a retort, and that was the end of the argument, because the desperation behind the words told Roy that Edward, boy genius and ball of burning, righteous determination that he was, couldn't make everything in the world right, couldn't make his little brother right, ever again, despite how much he aspired to.

Besides. He had never been able to deny the Elrics anything.

"Yes," he said slowly. And then, "Yes," with more conviction. "Alright. I – don't want to hurt you. I," tears leaked their way into his voice. "I don't want to hurt you." But one glance at Alphonse's eye told him that Alphonse was so submerged in pain, was so embodied by it, that the gentle licking of flames would be more relief than anything.

"I love him," Alphonse gasped, and Roy could swear that his heart had torn its way out of his chest, had left a gaping hole in its place. "...tell him that?"

Roy whispered, "I think he already knows," and jigged Edward a bit in his arms.

There was a pregnant pause then, filled with pain and quiet thicker than the ozone-saturated air. Roy knew there was more Alphonse wanted to say – there were endless things to say in a situation like this – but speaking was painful and becoming increasingly difficult with each passing minute.

So much to say, unable to get the words out.

_Oh God, Edward, please don't wake up. _

Maybe if he could only –

No.

His resolve was weakening.

He needed to leave.

"Alphonse," his voice shook. "It's been an honor," The eye broke from its careful study of Edward's still form, and focused fuzzily on Roy's face.

"The pleasure," the voice choked, became less familiar in its agony, and liquid splashed at his feet again, "was all mine."

* * *

His front door was unlocked when he finally arrived home, and he found that an incredibly disconcerting thing. Straight through the entry, he could hear the baby crying from his room upstairs, and after he had moved farther into the house, abandoning his suitcase by the door to the ballroom, another quiet, tear-filled voice resolved itself. He followed the softer one to the dining room. 

It was a grand place, built for gatherings, and the moment where he stepped into the room to find the length of a mile-long table and almost twenty chairs between himself and his wife was a surreal thing. He stopped at the head of the table, and the great crest of the Amestris military loomed morosely behind his head. Riza looked up from a steaming cup of tea.

A moment hung between the two. Both Roy's and Riza's subtly beautiful eyes narrowed angrily, and separate accusations ricocheted around them. The baby's crying made for a miserable background to the silent exchange.

_Why did you let him go?_ Roy's eyes said.

_Why did you leave me alone? _Riza's projected.

And then the moment was gone, and they were both running the length of the obscenely large dining hall to find comfort in each other's arms.

* * *

Roy Mustang suddenly knew quite keenly how Alphonse Elric must have felt years and years ago, carrying the dying body of his brother to help and hoping that he wouldn't lose too much blood on his way there. 

He was absolutely _terrified_.

He remembered vaguely that Alphonse had been ten at the time, that his brother had been bleeding from two places, that he was only getting used to a new, strange body, that the nearest help was miles and miles away with no way to get there than to just _run_, and again he felt vaguely ill. And to intervene in the brother's lives as he had later that evening, arrogant and swaggering _idiot_ that he had been, to later recount that night in front of his subordinates like it was nothing, had been just downright _cruel_ of him.

Edward's blood was warm on his shirtfront, and he had no time for regret.

He needed to do this _now_.

He tried not to think of Alphonse inside, unable to move and in pain. Knowing only that he had left his brother to an uncertain fate and that he was going to die.

That he was going to die.

God, how must it be to know that each breath might be your last? How must it be to be alone and afraid and in so much pain that every breath was like dying? Roy's guts crawled around in his skin at the thought of Alphonse Elric, the least deserving person in the entire world of Amestris, dying alone.

Then, his guts disappeared altogether.

_I could have killed him inside. I could have done this sooner. I could have given him company._

But no. He couldn't have. Because every new minute that he had spent staring at that eye had been another crack in his resolve, and if he had actually poised his fingers to snap, it might have shattered. If there had been two eyes, a face – heaven help him, he would have still been in there now.

Roy was completely hollow still as he laid Edward gently on the ground. A groan worked its way free of his throat as Roy's hands left him, and he started shivering hard against the ground.

"Shh, it's okay," he heard himself lie, even as he turned his attention to his gloves. He pulled one out of his pants pocket and the other out of the pocket in lapel – the latter was so hopelessly saturated with blood that he put it right back in before it could taint the other.

His worries that Edward would wake were unfounded, but still prominent and powerful. He could picture heavy golden eyes peeking open just as the flame leapt into the building, just in time to hear his little brother scream from inside. He could see the accusation there despite the pain, and he knew what he would say.

_I could have saved him. You're a murderer._

"It's okay," he said softly when Edward twitched, and the irony of it tasted sour on his lips.

Every new second that his heart was absent from his chest, he found his thoughts could echo hollowly through him. They made it impossible to forget what exactly he was doing. Who exactly would be in that warehouse burning. Why exactly he _had_ to go through with this –

Edward's breath hitched beneath him.

– and fast.

His snap came as easy as it always did, and the windows of the warehouse exploded outward in a gush of searing air. He had centered the explosion. Alphonse, at the center of the warehouse, had been in the most intense heat. He was dead already. Probably splattered all over the inside of the warehouse too, Roy thought, vaguely. But that wouldn't matter soon. He would see that the whole place burned to the ground, because no one would persecute Edward for this. No one would find the evidence of their human transmutation.

Edward Elric would suffer enough as it was, and he would not let the younger brother's sacrifice fall into the hands of a firing squad.

The second snap was intensely powerful, sent the ceiling into white-hot and billowing pillars of flame.

The third snap was unnecessary. (_Burn._) As was the fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh. (_Burn, burn, burn, burn!_) They were all as intense as the first and second had been, but his grief made his control sloppy. Debris rained down onto the river walkway and into the placid water. He stopped after the sixth, vision fuzzy, and went down to his knees panting.

No good.

One more powerful blast like that, and it would be Edward that suffered for it.

He turned his attention downward and found Edward cold and unmoving. His mind flooded with panic. His sweaty, bloodstained hands made frantic circles over Ed's person until they found a pulse beating weak and tired at his throat.

No more distraction, Edward needed him now. He hefted the boy into his arms and tried to ignore just how light he had become since the last time he had lifted him, just how much blood had puddled on the ground beneath him, just how pale he looked in the growing, flickering half-light of the warehouse's massive fire.

He took off running down the promenade and saw the shimmering reflection of the fire in the river long after it was gone behind them. His car waited serenely on the corner where he had left it and he shoved Edward into the passenger side seat, fumbled with the keys, and set off just as the first siren of a fire truck found its way to his ears.

* * *

"Hello Alphonse," he said, voice going gentle and quiet. "I've missed you." The baby gurgled in a pleased way, reached up and grabbed at the braiding on his uniform. Roy smiled warmly and tucked the baby into the nook of his elbow, then dangled his fingers in front of hazy brown eyes. 

Riza watched with the same eyes from the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. "He missed you, too."

"You can tell?"

"It isn't difficult. He cried more. He was cranky. But...I think part of it was having Edward here." Roy's chest went cold. He didn't need this argument again.

"Riza – "

"No. Roy, babies can sense things, I'm sure, and Edward...He _hated _the child. He made no secret of it."

"Riza!" Roy half-shouted, wary of the child in his arms, who warbled unhappily at the raised tones.

"He isn't stupid, Roy. He may be young but if someone hates so strongly it _radiates – _"

"Edward Elric is incapable of such strong hate toward an _infant_!"

"I'm not so sure anymore, Roy," she said softly. Roy dropped his arm. Alphonse made a cranky noise in his arms at the loss of his makeshift mobile, and Roy patted him absently on the stomach.

To defend Edward was always his first instinct, because he loved the boy, and defense had been ingrained in him after years of 'I'm sorry Mr. Mayor, but that building he blew up _was_ housing a wanted criminal,' and 'No General, he hadn't intended to hit _you _with that glob of potatoes.' But Riza's appeal suddenly left him feeling bereft, because maybe he had failed to notice Edward growing into something cold the past two months, and maybe there was little left of the Edward Elric he knew to defend.

But could he really be so different...?

Roy's first instinct held true, though, and he found that he couldn't speak ill of a boy who'd been through as much as Edward had.

"I think," he hesitated. "That Edward hates the _idea_ of our son. By naming him what we did, I think maybe he thinks we mean to make a replacement."

"That's silly. He's smart enough to realize that we only meant to honor Alphonse."

"Grief skews one's judgement. Edward needs more time to remember himself."

"Time isn't something he has right now."

"Certainly he does, we only have to ensure he gets all that he deserves." Roy kissed Alphonse on the forehead and hefted him skyward, spinning once before lowering him back into the crib. Alphonse smiled and Roy loved him so much his heart ached with it.

"I'll see you later, Al. Daddy has a lot of work to do."

* * *

Blood clung to skin tenaciously. Roy knew this. It was something he had learned in Ishbal when the blood and fat had saturated the searing Ishballan air after his victims exploded, and then worked its way under his uniform and onto his body. He had stunk of the dead for weeks, and more than once, Maes had turned him away from their tent to remove at least some of the caked flesh from his skin before he could ever enter. (_Please, Roy? There's enough death out there. I don't want it inside here, too._) 

Getting to a point where Hughes was satisfied had sometimes taken hours, because Ishballan blood hugged his skin and melded to it, stretched uncomfortably tight and dry when he tried to bend his fingers or elbows or knees at the joint.

Edward Elric's blood was no different.

The hospital's sink had little or no water pressure, it wouldn't get hot enough (because he wanted it to _burn_), and the bar of soap was a flimsy little thing that turned red when he put it on his forearm and never went back to its putrid pea-soup green.

He was still working at flaking away the layers on the inside of his elbow when Riza walked into the men's restroom, determined and unabashed, fresh shirt in one arm even as the other wrapped tight around her swollen stomach.

She calmly took in his scrubbed red forearms and blood-drenched dress shirt. Without a word, she set about unbuttoning the soiled one and replacing it with the one in the crook of her

elbow. There was blood on his pants too, but they both ignored it. The pants weren't so saturated, after all, that they had started to go stiff and brown as the blood dried.

When the deed was done, she smoothed his collar and looked into his red-rimmed eyes. The silent question "_what happened?_" was on her lips, Roy could see it, but it wasn't something he could put into words so soon. It wasn't something he could give her at the moment. He knew that she would understand.

"He..." Roy said, and his voice cracked adolescently. "He lost his left arm."

"I know," Riza murmured, still rubbing gently at his collar, hand occasionally snaking around to pull at his hair and massage circles into his neck. "They told me when I picked up your uniform jacket at the front desk – they thought the medals might be important, so they salvaged it. But...I threw it away. We'll have to order you a new one."

Good. He never wanted to see it again. "Oh...it was...I used it to. He –"

"They told me that it's probably what saved him. If you had used anything thinner than that, it might not have been enough to keep in what little it did."

Roy swallowed hard. "At least that uniform is good for something, then."

She smiled something bittersweet and broken, then leaned in closer. "They tell me his condition has stabilized. He's still being transfused, but we can go see him now, if you'd like."

The idea was terrifying. "N-no. I can't."

_I could have saved him. You're a murderer._

"He'll be asleep for a while yet, Roy. You don't have to talk to him. I just thought you might want a little reassurance. It must have been frightening bringing him here."

_It was fucking terrifying. I could feel his life seeping into my shirt –_

"No. I can't see him right now."

Riza, sweet Riza, just smiled and rubbed her thumb along his jaw. "We can go home then, and you can get some sleep."

But that was no good either. Leaving then felt like abandoning him. "I'd rather stay until he wakes up." Riza shifted heavily from one foot to the other – eight months pregnant, and she should not have to be dealing with this. "You should go."

Her eyes warmed and she shook her head. "Never."

_I love you._

His heart was full to bursting with grief, and every time it beat, every breath he took, every time he moved, he thought of _Alphonse_ in pain and alone and dying in an empty warehouse. But for a moment, there was Riza, stroking his face and holding his hand, and living and breathing and glowing in a way that only pregnant women can –

For better or for worse, he thought as he choked on a sob and felt her arms tighten around him in an awkward, one-sided embrace.

This was about as _worse_ as things got.

* * *

**Alright! To be continued soon, for sure! Reviews are very much appreciated!**

A few heads up -- I'm in need of a beta. If you want to look at this section and fine tune it, I would love you forever (as this is very much unbeta'd). I'll have the next section to go over when I get back. I would prefer that you have AIM or MSN, because I love to chat about what is wrong with my crap. If you volunteer, prepare to be bombarded with my writing at any given hour of the night/day. I really love to see what people think of my works while I'm working on them, and your input is valued! Just ask **Feyrae**. (Sorry for harassing you, throughout this process, dear. ;D) Anyway, if you're interested, PM or e-mail me ASAP, and I'll get back to you as soon as I'm home!

In other news, I'm so pleased with how Shattered is doing as of late. It has garnered a lot of hits and a lot of favorites lately, so -- I've decided to discontinue it! X3

NEVER FEAR, LOYAL READERS! This story is just very, very old. My writing is getting better (and I've gotten a lot more mature), and I feel the need to start anew. So I'll be starting a new series of FMA oneshots soon. But I feel the need to end this series with a bang, so it's reader request time, once again!

If you don't know what I'm talking about, look at Chapter 10. Give me some characters and a prompt (no yaoi/yuri/shoujo-ai/shounen-ai) and be specific! I'll write a 500-1000 word (give or take a few) drabble-thing for you. This time, I'm going to put up a few restrictions, given that I think I have a few more readers than I did in Chapter 10, and I don't want to write a million zillion drabbles. It really would be lovely if you've reviewed before if you intend to request something -- if you haven't, that's alright, too. If you are a loyal and obsessed lurker, then request away. But please don't take advantage of this! If you just stumbled upon this opportunity and want to see something written, I won't be terribly happy. This chapter is meant to be for those who have been with me all along, an appreciation for my readers. If you are not my reader, then do not make a request.

:3 Requests can be made in reviews for this chapter or reviews for the next one. Don't be intimidated by my death threats up there. XD If you want to see me write something, just ask. I really want to write for you guys! I want a lot of reqests to, as I said, end Shattered with a bang. Thanks everyone! And expect the next installment very soon! ♥


	17. Family

**Total Word Count for Suicidal!Ed Arc: 28,095**

**Total Word Count for this Section: 14,613**

_Huh. _Well. Would you look at that? Only about 7,000 more words than I thought it would be. Xx -dies and is dead-

I don't know how this particular story ever evolved into something so epic, but boy am I glad that it's _over_. I've wanted it to be over since I started it months and months and months ago, but for some reason, I had no idea how to end it and I just couldn't let it fade off. The ending I put here, even, seems rather abrupt to me. Maybe it was just ending the story that got to me. XD Maybe I couldn't believe it was happening myself. Regardless, I want this thing posted. I want this thing _dead_. I'm so ready to start on a new project it's not even_ funny_. So I'm going to get straight to the story and let you guys judge it for yourselves. ♥

**Warnings: **Still suicidal intentions and some heavy themes, still language (Ed just lost his brother, so naturally, he says "fuck" every other sentence. Naturally.), still character death, still some morbid imagery.

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The men who Havoc and Breda had recruited to look for Edward really had no idea what they were doing. It was little wonder that he hadn't been found yet. They checked all of Central's cemeteries first off, which was just silly, because he really had no one to visit in the graveyards of Central aside from Hughes who he wasn't thinking of right now anyway. All that they knew was that someone close to Edward had died, and so they sought to check every cliched spot in the city. Most of them seemed to be convinced that Edward was dead already too, seemed to be absolutely certain that they would find his body washed up on the banks of the river or slammed against a sewer grate somewhere. That, too, was silly. If Edward really wanted to be dead, he would have been by then. 

Certainly, there was the niggling voice the back of Roy's mind as well that could recall precisely how dejectedly his shoulders had slumped as he stood on that railing, precisely how tired his eyes had been in Roy's living room that night. And that same voice demanded that he dredge the river and buy a coffin. But the fact that Edward had run away and not sliced his throat in their bedroom or thrown himself off the balcony said that he wasn't all that determined to make himself dead just yet. It was something Roy realized now that he'd had a chance to clear his head some.

And something else kept coming to mind.

In the moments after _it_ had happened, Roy had been too busy fishing Edward out of a raging river to really think about it, but now, he couldn't help but think that Edward had never actually _intended_ to jump. Certainly, he had stood on the railing and looked down at the river,

and certainly he was depressed enough to have attempted it, but that didn't mean he actually _had_. When Roy had made his last desperate scrabble toward him, had he actually unintentionally pushed the boy in?

The thought was boggling, but at the same time, an amazing relief.

_Edward hadn't jumped. Edward hadn't given up on the world._

_Edward was considerably more clumsy with three automail limbs, _Roy thought, and sniffed haughtily.

Roy pulled his car to one side of the road lay his head gently on the steering wheel. So maybe he had pushed Edward to his near-death, and maybe Edward hadn't tried to commit suicide – that didn't change the fact that he was gone now. It didn't change the fact that he had just spent his second evening outside in the cold of winter with three automail limbs and if what Fuery said was true, little more than a pair of flannel pajamas on his back. It didn't change the fact that if they waited much longer, their search radius would need to increase exponentially. It didn't change the fact that Roy was still worried as hell, or that he needed to be found immediately, so that Roy could talk to him, and slap him until he saw reason, and hug him until Roy had memorized the new feel of every piece of metal, every bone, every body part against his own.

He shifted the car into gear and set off again, scanning the wan light of the early dawn with tired, blurry eyes. What the soldiers helping them hadn't known is that the only thing one can predict of Edward Elric is his unpredictability.

* * *

Roy was summoned from his office, like a father to a guilty child caught in the principal's office, when Edward's manic drawings moved off the paper he was provided and onto the walls. 

His men flashed him sad, sympathetic smiles as he passed, and as he climbed into the car behind his driver, she granted Roy a brief, kindly grin as well. She didn't ask the destination, just shifted the car into gear and set off toward the hospital.

This was becoming a daily occurrence.

As the only person that could coax any sort of response out of Edward within the city boundaries, Roy was summoned whenever he did something that the doctors and nurses didn't feel "qualified" to handle.

That was damn near everything.

It was frustrating, to say the least, that every time Edward wouldn't eat his breakfast or take his pills or stay in bed, Roy had to leave his office, leave work, to attend to him, when he couldn't do a thing about it, anyway. He wouldn't talk to Roy. He wouldn't listen to Roy. Roy had half a mind to just stop coming, because sometimes it was as if the nurses just summoned him to ogle. But even after he informed them all that he was happily married, thanks, they still called, nearly every day. Roy was spending later and later nights at the office just trying to keep up. Nevermind that his popular approval was suffering, and nevermind that Riza needed him at home, the nurses needed Roy at the hospital so that he could attempt to spoon-feed Edward _carrots_. Damn it all, he loved the boy, but there just wasn't enough time in the day for all this.

Roy strode briskly up the walk and through the double doors, nodding hurriedly to several military officers in the hall when they saluted. He knew where Edward's ward was – he would be able to find it blind by now, if only because he could usually hear the chaos that ensued there from across the building. When he reached the room, nodded to the orderlies outside, and flung open the door, he saw that the nursing staff hadn't been exaggerating.

There were arrays, hundreds and hundreds of arrays, lining every accessible inch of the blank, hospital-stark walls. Some were large, some were small, some were chiseled in and some were drawn with a pen. The hurried notes of a madman lined the outer rims of each circle, and Roy knew he couldn't have interpreted them even if he could have read the handwriting. Around the bed were piles of blank papers with the starts of sloppy arrays on them, scribbled out and crossed through. Finally, Roy raised his eyes to the bed itself, where Edward sat looking defiant and broken in a pale green hospital smock. Roy sighed.

Enough was enough.

"Edward. We can't keep doing this." And the boy had the decency to lower his eyes a little, looking vaguely embarrassed. "You're not a child." He allowed his tone to go slightly harsh, the steely chill of a commanding officer creeping in above the warm tones of a concerned father. "This," he waved a hand at the mess on the walls, "is inexcusable." Edward's hand tightened in the sheets. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Roy had known it would be harsh before he sad it, but it sounded downright _cruel_ coming out of his mouth.

Thinking that the reprimand had fallen on deaf ears, he turned away to seek out a doctor in order to apologize, but just as his hand fell on the doorknob, Edward, wonder of all wonders, spoke up.

"I...don't know what I did wrong," he murmured, soft and sad.

"Edward..."

"The array was...I thought...I spent _months_ – " He looked up at Roy, eyes imploring. "I did everything right. I swear I did."

Roy turned to glance at the array-lined walls, making a slow circle around the room and running his fingers over the low grooves they had created. All of the circles, he noticed now, seemed to be variations of the one that Edward had shown him nearly two weeks previously. (Had it only been two weeks? It felt like years, now.) Each was fundamentally similar, but with tiny little differences between them that anyone who wasn't an alchemist wouldn't have noticed.

"The paper... I. I only have one hand, and the paper kept moving around! But I needed to see! I've been trying to remember what might have happened. It." He drew in a careful breath. "It always brings me to the same place."

Roy turned from his careful study of the wall and focused on Edward's face.

"What?" He said gently.

"It wasn't the technique," he said, voice wavering. "It was the power source."

_I found a way to utilize...to utilize emotional energy!_

"Surely you aren't suggesting...?" Roy said, brow furrowing.

"He hates me. Well," Edward said, voice filled with dark mirth, "_hated_ me." Roy could only look at him for a moment, eyes wide as saucers and mind trying to comprehend what he'd just heard. Then, placid as you please, Roy crossed the room and punched him in the face. Edward 1just touched the side of his head where Roy had made impact and spit out a mouthful of blood right onto one of the scribbled out arrays at his bedside.

_I love him._

"You…you _idiot_!"

_…tell him that?_

Thus far into Edward's hospital stay, Roy hadn't been able bring himself to tell Edward the truth about his brother's death. And still. Even as he was faced with this, he couldn't tell Edward that Alphonse had died by his hand. How selfish was he to allow Edward to hate himself but not his commanding officer?

"How could you even say something like that!? It's an insult to your brother's memory!"

"Then why wasn't it enough! Why is nothing I do ever enough!? He had reason to hate me, I don't blame him, I don't mind!"

Again, for a moment Roy just stared. His mind was seething and roiling, but in his chest his heart _broke_ for the boy. He shouldn't have been surprised that _this_ was the conclusion Edward had reached. It made perfect sense to Edward, unmitigated guilt machine that he was, that he had done something so despicable as to merit his younger brother's loathing.

"Edward, your brother didn't hate you."

Edward didn't even know that it had been Roy to carry him away from the smoldering rubble of that warehouse. Edward wasn't even aware that it had burned to the ground, yet.

"How the hell would you know, bastard? Like you know shit about me." Better not to tell him. Better not to let him know –

_Maybe. Maybe I'd rather not go back to that life._

"Looking at you two, watching the both of you for as long as I did, how could I not know!?"

Edward stayed stubbornly silent, and then. "I killed my little brother. I'm the worst…the _worst _person there is."

_No you didn't. I did. I am._

"Will you stop – "

"Go away."

"Stop this!"

"I said get the fuck out! I don't wanna see you back here!"

Some frustrated chord in Roy's heart twanged at that, and whatever dam had been keeping Roy's anger at bay snapped like a brittle rubber band.

"Do you think I want to be here? Do you honestly think I _enjoy_ spending my afternoons here with an unresponsive little brat who scribbles on the wall like an infant with a crayon!?"

Stop, Roy, he said to himself. Stop. Edward doesn't need this now –

"Th-then go home b-bastard! If you don't want to be here then g-go find something b-better to do with your fucking time!"

Stop before you say something stupid.

"I think I will! I do have a family waiting for me at home, after all," Roy snarled, and as soon as he'd said it, Ed's face just shattered.

…Like that.

_Shit._ Riza always said he had a temper like a time bomb.

"I FUCKING HATE YOU!" And then Edward was up and swinging wildly at Roy with a singular arm, backing Roy toward the closed door. Roy knew he'd said something beyond cruel when warm tears of anger started falling down Edward's face. He knew it wasn't sadness there, because that was smoldering and temporarily forgotten behind the rage that Edward seemed to _need_ to focus on.

"You're a goddamn bastard! You're fucking scum, you asshole, do you hear me?!" Roy wrenched the door open and slammed it behind him, and Edward's muffled screeches scratched their way past the heavy wood. Roy slumped against the hallway's opposite wall and panted, hand over his eyes. The orderlies, who appeared to have taken a brief break with Roy inside, jumped into action and disappeared into the room. Edward's cries turned indignant then, and soon after, they were silenced completely.

When the doctor approached Roy a few minutes later, all he managed to get out through the shaking in his voice was, "…Well, that could have gone better."

The diagnosis came a little while later. Edward had ripped every last one of his stitches, raised his blood pressure to new and startling heights, and restarted the rampant bleeding at his shoulder.

They all agreed it would be better if Roy was not called on again.

* * *

He had several witnesses tell him the same thing. 

A fisherman who would live and die at Central's wharf recalled him.

_"The old warehouse that burned, down by river – he was there, he was. I saw him."_

An attractive women showing far too much skin considering the draft on her street corner had seen him stagger by.

_"Oh yeah I saw him. Little pipsqueak," she'd made a gesture just above her ample breasts then. "Yea tall? Big golden doe eyes? Poor little guy limped by here a few times. Hobbled like a soldier-boy and rattled like pots and pans."_

A ticket salesman at the train station had seen him huddled up on a bench in the lobby.

_"That kid twern't no trouble. I's seen teens wi' attitudes but he twern't one o' them. Po' chil' looked mighty cold. I let 'im stay the nigh'. Gave 'im a blanket too. I don' thin' he was sleepin' too good though."_

All accounts pointed to the same area. Everyone he'd asked had similar stories.

_So where the hell was the little brat?_

He'd checked the area three times. He'd driven by the barren patch of black earth three times. He hadn't seen Edward there three times.

But…once more couldn't possibly hurt. Roy hated to admit it, but it was the only lead he had.

The area where the warehouse had been was still framed by fraying yellow police tape even though investigators had determined the fire an accidental occurrence sometime earlier. Roy often wondered how they had ever reached that conclusion, because looking at that familiar rectangular patch of black, he thought that it looked far too clean to be a natural disaster. Roy knew fire, and he knew that a gas or electrical accident couldn't create a spark so intense that it took down the whole building before the fire department took care of it. (Of course, he also knew that he had been the one to start it, so his opinion mattered very little.) He could only assume that Alex's department had investigated the case, and _damn_, that man was good at covering up Roy's tracks.

He slowly eased his car past the area and scanned each patch of black and snow-whitened soot thoroughly. A new, light, feathery snow had begun to fall around noon, gently covering the wet, heavy layer they had received on the night of Alphonse's shower. And it wasn't until then, the fourth time around, against the backdrop of white, that he spotted something in the very center of the rectangle (_right where the circle would have been, had the warehouse still been standing_). A shivering lump of gray made rich by patches of shimmering silver and gold.

(_Gray?_ That was why he hadn't found him sooner. All this time, he'd been looking for _red_.)

Roy's heart stopped. He was out of the car and running faster than he had ever known his legs could carry him, hoping against all hope that Edward hadn't just fallen there to die.

Feeling his way up the body was hauntingly familiar. Only this time, there were no abrasions or missing limbs, just the same unnatural hardness on both the left and right sides and far less body heat than the fever-ridden near-corpse of last time. When Roy's hands reached the summit of Ed's face and found tears there, he let out a little noise on the edge of an oddly gulped breath – remorse, and with Ed finally here, diluted ecstasy at the chance of a desperately needed catharsis.

Ed's eyes fluttered open and focused fuzzily on him, and Roy only had time to think '_Wait_…_is that _my_ coat?' _before a cold, unfeeling fist thudded dully against his jaw.

* * *

Roy Mustang was asleep when his son was born. He honestly hadn't meant to be – he'd been preparing for the day for weeks, for fuck's sake, he'd been excited and supportive throughout the entire pregnancy and he'd held his wife's hand through the first _sixteen hours_ of labor. But for God's sake, he was but a man, and after night after sleepless night of worrying and nightmares (_truncated limbs and piles of flesh and Alphonse's voice_), after long, long days in the Fuhrer's office, after tiring escapades with a very pregnant woman, all he wanted was fifteen goddamn minutes on the couch in the lobby. 

But apparently, fifteen minutes had turned into four hours, and before he knew it he was awake with crying in his ear and a tiny baby boy, all bundled in blue, under his nose. It only took him a moment of blinking and wondering where the hell the baby had come from before something in his muddled brain said _that's Riza's nose_, and his insides went to goo.

When the baby landed in his arms, he smiled like he hadn't in years. He could feel his heart fluttering as he lowered the downy baby blanket to get a better look at the closed eyes and the pudgy face, and he rocked the boy against his chest to soothe the tears like he'd been born for it. The baby cooed softly as the crying died out, and Roy held a tiny little hand between two massive fingers as he drifted softly to sleep.

_Beautiful, beautiful boy,_ he marveled.

Behind his heart, there was a warm, fluttering, concerned sort of feeling, that beat and beat, and that intensified when Roy looked at his son. What was that…what was that feeling, precisely?

He could feel his soft, mellow grin crinkle at his eyes, and a sudden overwhelming euphoria hit him when he looked under the tiny blue hat and saw his own stark black hair peeking out at him. He looked up for the first time and announced, "That's my _hair_!" to the owner of the hands that had provided the baby.

Winry Rockbell, arm entwined with a handsome young man who was hefting a garish red toolbox, smiled down at him.

"Congratulations, Fuhrer Mustang." The young man nodded and smiled politely along with her. Roy rubbed a thumb along the dozing baby's face and then planted a tender kiss on his forehead before climbing stiffly to his feet.

"Ms. Rockbell," he said, and when he nodded a greeting his neck popped audibly. "You were the last person I expected to be handing me my son."

_My son. My son!_

"I was in the hospital working on Edward's port when I saw that you and Riza were here. I was happy to hold her hand since you were…er…indisposed."

Roy's fluttering heart plummeted, and his face fell. As if sensing his distress, the baby in his arms warbled out a sad little noise.

"Ah…h-how is Edward doing?" He said, throat dry.

_They won't let me see him anymore._

He swallowed hard.

Winry's smile faltered. "He's…better." She said, strained. Next to her, the young man spoke up.

"He's not ready for automail, yet. Maybe _you _can talk some sense into her." Winry whipped around to face him, and her ponytail whizzed through the air like a lethal weapon. Roy looked very pointedly at his baby boy.

"I know he's not, but he can't stay in this hospital much longer, it's driving him crazy. Did you want me to just tell him _no_? He needs to move on and this is the only way he knows how!" Winry's voice was dissolving rapidly into tears as she spoke, gradually wobbling more and more until she was wiping frantically at her eyes.

"We're hurting him more than we need to, Win," the young man said genially. "You shouldn't let your feelings get involved with your work."

"My _feelings_ got involved with my _work_ the moment _you_ walked into my shop!" She punctuated her words with one-fingered jabs at his chest.

"You could kill him, Winry!"

"_I'm keeping him alive_!" She screeched, and Roy's shoulders slumped, and his baby, already a genius and master manipulator at the tender age of thirty minutes, burst into miserable tears.

Winry stopped crying.

The young man stopped shouting.

Roy stopped moving.

In his arms, the baby stopped crying and peeked open bleary brown eyes.

All of Roy's air left him in one harsh gust.

* * *

Roy's cheek pulsed in time with his heartbeat. It didn't stop him from dragging Edward into his arms and just holding him. The boy squirmed but stayed miraculously quiet as Roy closed his eyes and rocked a little to either side. Doing that always put Alphonse to sleep, he knew, and even if it didn't have quite such a soporific effect on Edward, it was enough to keep him quiet for a moment, if only because he was too stunned to say much. 

And then, Edward seemed to come back to his senses, and he bristled like an indignant cat. He pushed hard against Roy's chest and used the leverage of two super-human automail arms to free himself. Roy just flopped back onto the ashes of the warehouse, and looked him straight in the eye.

"What the fuck, asshole?" Edward demanded. "What g-gives you the right?"

"I haven't treated you well lately, Edward."

"N-now's a f-f-fucking fantastic time to make amends, alright! You c-could have done that before I – "

"You're freezing. Come to the car." He got to his feet and put a gentle hand on one of Ed's arms. Ed looked at it dubiously for a moment before shoving it to the side and jumping to his feet as well. Roy's hand stung like crazy.

"Go away! Why don't you just let me f-f-freeze to death!"

"No, Ed, I – "

"S'not like you give a damn!"

"Will you li –"

"Pushed me into the fucking water before, shithead, what's changed since then?!"

"You scared me, Edward, I wasn't thin –"

"I _scared_ you?! How scared do you think I was when I woke up without an arm and without a brother and without a _hope_, bastard! And where the hell were you?!"

"Edw –"

"I…I fuckin' had no clue how I'd even got to the hospital… I did'n…I did'n know what had happened, all that I remembered was – " He let out a tiny little sob. "All I 'membered was _Al_ telling me he wanted to…to…"

"Come to the car," Roy said, and Ed stuffed a metal fist to his lips hard enough to leave bruises.

After a moment, he turned away, seemed to steel himself. "Why the hell sh-should I?"

"Because you look like hell, and I know you haven't eaten in days," Roy responded truthfully.

Edward started off in another direction. Roy sighed and tried again.

"Because there are things I haven't told you that you deserve to know."

The boy stopped walking then looked back at him with helplessly wide eyes. "Where did it all g-go?"

"In time," Roy said, and turned for the car.

"Where did _Al_ go?" came a shout from behind him.

Roy just kept walking. When he heard hurried crunching behind him, he allowed himself a smirk. Edward had gotten infinitely smarter in the years since they'd met, but good old-fashioned manipulation always got him in the end.

* * *

"I'd like to name him Alphonse." Riza peered at him from heavy lidded eyes. 

"Alphonse?" She croaked.

"It's a heavy name now, but Riza he'll grow into it, and Edward will be –"

"Edward will be furious."

"Edward will be _honored_."

Riza just tipped her head back against the bed, exhausted. "You hadn't considered it before. What brought it on?"

_Strong brown eye through layers of smoke –_

_His wife's brown eyes from the folds of a blanket –_

For a moment, the two images had meshed with one another, and Alphonse was his child and his child was Alphonse, and wasn't that the way it had always been anyway?

"He just…looked at me." Roy said helplessly. Riza gazed steadily at him then, baby in her arms, and oh he loved her, he loved him, he loved _them_. 

"Alphonse." She tested. "Alphonse." She looked down at the boy in her arms.

"Alphonse." She christened him.

* * *

Edward held himself stiffly against the passenger window. He rattled his knee and hugged the coat tight around himself. Roy drove as if nothing were wrong, as if nothing had changed, as if Alphonse were crunched up in the back seat and apologizing because he blocked Roy's view of the road. 

Roy glanced into the rearview mirror and saw, quite clearly, a tire-tracked trail marked deep in the snowy path. He sighed.

"What –"

"Not until you've had something to eat."

"But you –"

"I promise. We'll talk."

"I –" 

"Edward, you look half dead. I want to make sure there's something in your stomach before you feel the need to go gallivanting off in your pajamas again."

Edward huffed and crossed his arms. After a pause, Roy couldn't resist asking, "Are you wearing my coat?"

Without missing a beat, a stubborn, familiar Edward retorted, "I'm not giving it back," and Roy hid a chuckle behind his hand.

* * *

This quiet, pale Edward standing tight and drawn by the window was something new. When he'd first arrived with Winry, her hovering at his shoulder and watching him like a hawk, Roy had been able to see, really, for the first time, that things would never be the same. It came as something of a shock, and again, he struggled to interpret the warm pulsing in his chest behind his heart that stuttered a bit at the realization. 

The scowl on Ed's face was withdrawn, bitter, unfamiliar. His eyes took things in with a muted sort of interest rather than the all-devouring intensity that had burned behind his irises before. He looked – defeated. He looked like a boy who had been beaten and slashed and bruised too many times and had finally lost the will to get up.

Roy's spine chilled. He had watched Edward's expression carefully from the moment he arrived, and more often than not, he saw a mild sense of disdain there. At one point, he'd run an automail finger along the crystal window of the grandfather clock in the entryway, and Roy had seen his lip just absolutely _curl_. It wasn't until later that Roy realized, perhaps, it was the extravagance that the Fuhrer's mansion afforded.

_You have so much. I have so little. What makes that fair?_

Nothing. Life dealt you a fucking lousy hand, kid.

His first encounter with the baby had been similarly disastrous. Winry had shoved the boy forward enough to see Alphonse's brilliant little brown eyes, framed by his cherubic little face. He'd even kicked a bit in Riza's arms, stretching and clutching his hands into loose fists in way that Roy had come, over the month, to interpret as a pleased gesture. Roy had smiled. He couldn't help it. Every time he looked at his son, his heart clenched with love. And to see Edward and Alphonse together again –

"Oh." Edward had said mildly, cocking his head to the side and moving to grasp his own left arm with a faint, upsetting _clack_. "That's nice." And then he'd wandered off to stand by the window, face distant and eyes searching for something, someone that wasn't there.

Roy wasn't sure how he'd expected the boy to react. He really shouldn't have been expecting anything more. But his expression must of said that he had been, because Winry gave him a helpless little shrug and a reassuring smile and Riza rubbed her hand along his forearm gently.

And then he had mingled. He spoke with his other guests, most with much more enthusiastic responses to his baby than Edward, but he always kept one eye on the boy, despite how constant and uninteresting his silent vigil at the window was. Roy thought again, for the thousandth time, that he was the worst sort of coward there was. He couldn't even speak to the poor boy, but it looked like he was among friends in that aspect, because everyone chatting warmly at the shower gave a wide berth to the silent guest at the window.

"I told him I was engaged today," Winry was suddenly there behind him. She must have seen his blatant staring from across the room. It was a small blessing that Edward had been too engrossed in his study of the landscaping to notice. Roy turned to look at her. "He asked if we were going back home to stay with Granny, and…and what could I say, Fuhrer?"

"He wouldn't have wanted to be lied to, regardless of the situation. It is an insult, he thinks, to his intelligence."

"I said…I said I'm not going back. I can't, really, everything for me is in Rush Valley. But Fuhrer, his face just –" Winry bit back a sob and her eyes went bright. Roy knew exactly what she was talking about. He'd seen that broken face in a hospital room before, a horrifying sort of betrayed expression that melted your heart and made you feel like the most awful person in existence. It was far, far worse than his shouting and ranting had ever been.

Roy held up a hand. He didn't need one of Winry's emotional outbursts now. Not with a fragile and prone Edward halfway across the room and probably _listening_. "Shh. It's fine. I understand," he said, and tilted an eyebrow pointedly toward the window.

Winry bit her lip, nodded, and spoke quietly. "I didn't even accept Evan's proposal until Ed had called me and assured me he'd found a way, because I – I don't know why. But. I can't go back now, because I'm happy, even if he's not. Oh shit. Oh. I'm sorry, that sounds so _selfish_. I – "

"You don't have to justify yourself. The world doesn't stop because –"

"Please, don't say it," she pleaded, and fervently shook her head. "I don't think I could take it if you said it out loud like that."

"You're going to have to come to terms with it. Everyone is."

Winry narrowed her eyes. "You're a _hypocrite_."

"I –" The niche in his chest went to _daggers_.

"Alphonse was a part of my family. My parents died when I was a child, and I still feel ill when I think of them." Her eyes went piercing suddenly, cutting right into Roy's, and that was a can of worms that Roy did _not_ want to open this evening.

_Have I not suffered enough!?_

So he stealthily changed the subject.

"I'm afraid I can't release him to you anyway, Ms. Rockbell." Her eyes went from piercing to puzzled and Roy breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"No, don't get me wrong, he has a place to go! Granny wants him home, she says he's welcome to come, but she – she might be selling the house soon, because it really is too much for her to take care of – "

Roy interjected carefully, "That's not what I mean."

"Well what do you mean?"

"This isn't something that I've been able to discuss with him, considering that he's been…slightly off recently. But he can't leave the military now."

"Why the hell can't he?" She hissed through her teeth.

"His contract clearly states that –"

"Bullshit! He was twelve when he signed that!"

"Ms. Rockbell, I'm afraid his age means very little to –"

"You're the _Fuhrer_!"

"And I must obey the laws of my country."

Winry fumed, nostrils flaring and hands clenching furiously at her sides. Then, through furiously grinding teeth she managed, "I'm going to go speak to your wife before I give the leader of our nation a concussion."

"Enjoy the party," Roy quipped as she walked away.

He turned his eyes to Edward again, that bit behind his heart snarling defensively, and Winry could never know that Roy could sever the contract any time he damn well pleased. It was just so much easier to keep Edward close to him when there was a court martial hanging over his head.

* * *

Roy pointed Edward in the direction of the icebox and left him to his own devices. He knew that Edward, prideful creature that he was, wouldn't touch a crumb if Roy were hovering at his shoulder and waiting for him to take a bite. But he stayed close, just in the next room, and there was only one way out of the kitchen. Roy was guarding the only logical exit, considering Edward probably wasn't capable of much alchemy given how tired and hungry he had to be. Roy had thought that he had made a good choice until he heard a startled yelp, a loud crash, and a string of swears. He was willing to ignore the first four shattered dishes, but when the same sequence occurred for the fifth time and he heard a plaintive little moan from behind the closed door, he stopped pacing and strode purposefully into the kitchen. 

Edward sat, head in automail hands, in front of five shattered glass and ceramic bowls and five perfectly good meals gone to waste. There was a chunk of some edible something on the table, but the thick plastic wrap it was housed in was unbroken, just stretched loose in countless directions. The handle to his icebox was bent out of shape, and there was a hole in one of his overhead cabinets about the size of a fist.

For God's sake, he had only been in the kitchen for _fifteen minutes_!

"I realize I'm not your favorite person in the world right now, Edward, but –"

"It's my fucking hands, asshole!"

Oh.

_Oh._

Edward wiggled his ten slick, smooth, shiny automail fingers at Roy. "It's like picking up bowls with a pair of…of metal lab tongs for all that I can feel with them!" One of Roy's black floor tiles cracked into pieces as Edward slammed a fist hard into the floor. Then he absently stuck his left hand into his mouth and bit down on it in what seemed to be a downright _painful_ way before he swore again and shouted, "I don't even have any fucking nails to bite anymore! Shit!"

"Let's pick up a pizza then, shall we?" Roy said, voice level and firm, rising above Edward's panic. Edward just looked up with damp eyes.

"…Pepperoni?" He sniffled.

"Of course."

* * *

The moment was far from what he had imagined. 

Edward had that _look_ again. Eyes stricken and mouth working and eyebrows furrowed and all of the color gone from his face. Roy just kept smiling, uncertain. His eyes wavered between Edward and his son and Riza.

"Edward?" He said, but the boy didn't seem to comprehend. Roy's mind grasped desperately for something better to say. All that came to mind was '_Their eyes, Edward, if you had seen their eyes, if any of you had seen those eyes, you wouldn't blame me, you would know, oh Edward – _'

Edward's eyes glowed and flickered with the fire in the hearth.

Gold.

Alphonse looked up, grabbed at Riza's blouse.

Brown.

_Not brothers, but couldn't you just pretend for me? Just for a moment?_

Riza looked up at him and hissed, "I _told_ you we should have asked him first!"

And Roy was wearing his new uniform jacket and there were countless eyes of people who respected him there and waiting, so he couldn't very well say, _'I was too afraid he would say no, because Riza, if you had seen his eyes –!'_

Instead, there was a bravado he didn't feel in his voice as he all but shouted, "Nonsense!" which seemed to be the final straw for Edward, who congratulated them hurriedly as he turned to run out the door.

Several people moved to follow him. Winry was off the couch and sprinting, Alex was fitting on his gloves, Havoc and Breda had parted with the bar for the first time that evening, and the whole room erupted into chaos. The boom of Roy's voice roared above it though, and he was moving faster than the others toward the hall closet.

"Stay _here_! I'll bring him back. I need to talk to him. I'll bring him back." Winry was the only one who protested, because she was the only one who had not seen Roy's dyed brown shirt or his daily excursions to the hospital or his face on the day after the warehouse at the wharf had mysteriously burned to the ground. None of them had heard the story, but they all knew, in essence, what had taken place. It seemed common sense to anyone close to Roy, what he would do for his subordinates. What he would do for the Elrics.

Riza silenced Winry with a firm hand on her biceps.

"He's only gone to the dorms," Roy assured the group of waiting people. "I'll retrieve him and be back shortly," he bundled up and went out the door.

* * *

Edward sat calmly on Roy's couch (the ground floor sitting room one – it was a lovely, thick sort of berry red, and it really clashed with the boy's eyes fantastically), curled around a nearly empty pizza box and smelling fresh and fruity from the shower. Every so often, he would waver a bit to the side, eyelids drooping in such a tenderly familiar way (so much like Alphonse – so much like his son and so very, very different). The niche glowed warmly, and he wanted so badly to wrap him in his arms and make everything go away – cradle Edward like he did his baby, and just let him sleep there. 

_Alphonse, Alphonse, Alphonse._

Edward. Edward. Edward.

Edward lapped at the grease on his automail fingers when he'd polished off his pizza. He'd been so pleased when he plucked the first piece out and had actually been able to hold it without his gloves, and he'd finished off every successive piece with similar relish. But now, licking his fingers, he seemed contemplative of his new hand again, confused that he couldn't feel the wetness of that flickering pink tongue wash over it.

"When I was little," he said suddenly, bending his fingers slightly and studying his hand, "I was right-handed. Then when I lost it, I learned to use my left, and I sorta got used to it. And now…now I don't know what to do. I'm out of hands." He looked up and gave a faltering smile.

"You'll manage, I'm certain."

"M'tired of managing," he said, and all the strength seemed to leave him with his next exhale and he flumped sideways onto the couch cushion. The pizza box fell to the floor and he curled into a tighter little ball.

It was so strange that Edward was being so cooperative with him. As he'd walked out the door to find him earlier, Riza had told him horror stories of the days before Edward had left in which he slept fitfully most of the time and refused human contact entirely.

_He wouldn't eat, Roy, and I…he's very thin._

Looking at the empty pizza box on the floor, he found he couldn't imagine an Edward Elric without his appetite, either.

And really, the surprise of all surprises was that he was putting up a genuinely good front with Roy. They'd been on such terrible terms when he'd left, and Roy knew how bone-deep his depression ran, so upon his return, he'd been expecting either a horribly morose Edward or a dead one. What he got was this one, a vague silhouette of the Edward he remembered – his Fullmetal, but in muted tones and gray hues. Forced smiles had been common in the days of old, but at least there had been real ones then to compare them to.

But the strangest part was, Edward didn't feel the need to deign anyone else with this (if somewhat falsely) pleasant demeanor. Everyone they had encountered from the time Roy had picked him up got the same stony exterior.

Roy's mind boggled. Honestly, why _him_ of all people?

_I'm scum. I don't deserve you._

"You should go to bed."

_Don't make me tell you this._

Instantly, Edward perked up. "No way you're worming your way out of it now, bastard! You promised!"

"You're very tired."

"Don't patronize me!"

"When was the last time you slept?"

His eyes went imploring then, round and bright and desperate. "You _promised_."

"…We'll keep it short, then." Damn, Roy could never deny the Elrics _anything_.

* * *

The snow was getting too thick to see through by the time that Roy had reached Central City's bridge. The fact that Edward had this much gain on him was a testament to how very slowly modern cars warmed in cold weather and how impossible it was to get anywhere quickly when his engine sounded rather like an angry chimera in weather below zero. He probably could have caught the boy easier on foot, but he figured that Edward would be cold when he did finally fish him out of the storm, and if he was to take him anywhere, it wouldn't be on foot. Poor kid had enough pains working against him already, he didn't need the added pang of the cold. 

He slowed toward the center of the bridge. The ice was deadly slick – he'd heard there had been cold rain only a few nights previously, and now it had frozen over. And it always was ten times worse on a bridge, anyway.

He concentrated hard on the road ahead of him.

Just past the final column of the bridge, the sputtering of his car culminated in a glorious deafening wail and a magnificent cloud of white steam billowed up from his engine, into the chill.

Fucking _fantastic_.

He hadn't traveled all that far from the Fuhrer's home in one of the posh riverside neighborhoods, but the last thing he wanted to do was open the door and flood his toasty warm car (the heater, which had been on full blast, was most likely what had caused the breakdown in the first place) with the cold outside. He didn't know the first thing about fixing a car. Maybe he should have allowed Winry along.

He heaved a sigh into the steering wheel, tried starting the car several times (only to be met with more dying animal calls), and eventually decided walking was probably the best plan. He had another car at the house, anyway – and it, he decided, as he climbed slowly out of the car and into the frigid lane, was probably better than this piece of shit anyway.

As he passed, he kicked the back wheel just to spite it.

He gathered his coat tight around him as he made is way back across the bridge – it was a gray tweed sort of greatcoat – warm and down on the inside. One of his favorites, but still not quite thick enough to keep out the biting chill of the winter evening. He couldn't hear much for the loud buffeting of the wind in his ears and he couldn't see much for the impermeable quality that the slanted snow had suddenly taken, so it came as a surprise when he heard a loud, defeated cry through the howl of the storm, and saw a figure filter through the snow just ahead of him.

He smiled, even as he wondered how he had possibly missed this the first time around – perhaps his car going down had been a blessing in disguise. He started toward the boy, his name on his lips, when Edward abruptly scrambled up another guardrail and leaned dangerously over the edge of the bridge.

Roy could feel his heart beating faster, could feel that niche going cold, and for a moment, he couldn't even understand why. The quickening, unsteady tattoo in his chest only served to give him a sickening reminder of the night Edward had bled his life away on his shirtfront for a moment, before Roy realized just exactly what Edward was planning to do.

Then, it all seemed to _connect_, snap together like Elysia's building blocks. Bridge, water, automail, climbing, looking over.

Jump.

He was going to _jump_.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. He staggered backwards under the force of it, and with the last of his strength, rent the air with a haggard "Edward," that barely sounded above the storm. For the second time in too short a time, he felt his heart rip free of his chest. He'd lost it first to Alphonse, moaning softly in that warehouse. He'd regained it with twice its strength when his son fell into his arms. And now it was gone again, torn free and bloodying the ground before him.

"Edward," he said again, stronger this time, refusing to acknowledge the hollowness of his chest, and the echo that the shout provided. The boy didn't seem to notice, though he did pause in his watchful survey of the surging water beneath them.

Finally, desperately, his voice returned to him full power, because he was the Fuhrer damnit, and he had faced _worse _(_truncated limbs and howling in pain and blood on the floor_). "Edward!" He let fly, and the boy definitely heard him that time, as his head jerked upward, startled. He didn't, however, look back at Roy. His mind was elsewhere, probably so entirely dedicated to the task at hand, that he didn't deign outward stimuli worth his response.

Roy could recall that. Roy knew what it was like to be so far gone that eating was inconsequential, that breathing was trivial, that all that mattered was the gun at your throat, and the buckets of blood around you, and the chalk dust that would let fly, certainly, when you pulled the trigger –

– Or the steel rail complaining loudly beneath your fists, and the roar of the water beneath you, which sounded strong even above the whirring rush of the winter storm.

Then Roy remembered what exactly had dragged him back to the world of the living, and wished to hell that his best friend were here now. But there was just Roy. Roy and Edward, alone on the bridge.

His voice took on a firmness that he didn't feel, suddenly inspired by a remembrance of his best friend's firm hand on his shirtfront. "Edward Elric, you get down from there this instant!" He itched to go forward and just yank him off the guardrail, but who knew what such sudden movements would do to a desperately volatile boy teetering, literally, on the ice-slicked brink of death.

Abruptly, the boy turned to look at him and though that distraction was what Roy had been seeking, he really wished he hadn't. His eyes were half-wild and desperate; his mouth was a tight, thin, twitching line; his cheeks were pale and bloodless. He looked half-frozen, and all Roy wanted to do was yank him down and _hug _him.

Different tactic. "Edward. Please, come here. Talk to me." That, too, merited an entirely undesired response as Edward violently shook his head (and good lord, had he just dislodged frost from his braid?) and turned again to contemplate his watery grave.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

_Get him down, get him down, what the hell are you waiting for!?_

"_Please._" Roy suddenly, reflexively breathed, almost groaned. That seemed to gain more attention than any of the other attempts at least, which, Roy thought, may or may not have been a good thing, as the metal guardrail let out a miserable dying _wail _and gave way.

Fuck propriety, fuck scaring the brat, Roy wasn't going to let him die. He surged forward, adrenaline pumping madly somewhere in his gut, and for a moment, he didn't even realize that he wasn't in control of his movements, that his feet were slipping out from under him as he ran. So intent upon reaching the boy in time was he that all that he saw, all that he noticed, was Edward toppling from the precarious rail the moment that he reached it.

"EDWARD!" He shouted, because maybe if he yelled loud enough and reached far enough, he would catch the end of Edward's fluttering red coat before he hit the water.

It was not to be.

Roy's hand was still outstretched and straining when a tiny dot of a splash broke the water far below. He barely even heard it above the din of his blood in his ears. Gradually, as he realized precisely what had just taken place, his eyes slowly followed the trajectory Edward had taken to the river, and his hand fell back to his side.

* * *

"By the time I got there, Edward, you were already unconscious," he started unsteadily. 

"You…were there?"

"I carried you out."

"Why did you…what exactly…"

"Made me come? I don't know," he lied, because he knew very well why he couldn't sleep that night, why he'd braved the dark and the unknown and the uncertainty. "But I suppose you're lucky I had the whim," he concluded casually. Lucky, he thought afterwards, was an entirely loose term, there. The stunted sort of bitterness in Ed's eyes and cold little humorless laugh told Roy he thought the same.

"I suppose it was the shock and the blood loss that got to you. When I got to the hospital, doctor said that you had taken one hell of a shock to your system." He was reminded briefly of the ragged, exposed nerves dragging the ground as he picked him up and then pressing hard against his torso.

"Yeah it…it did seem like the gate did a cleaner job last time," Edward mumbled, and Roy puzzled over that for a moment before deeming it unimportant and continuing.

"At first I wondered why you hadn't gone to him, why I found you at the edge of the circle – but it made sense after the doctor explained it. You must have passed out immediately."

"…Not immediately," Edward whispered, metal hands clasping on his borrowed, too-big pajama bottoms, and Roy's heart clenched for him in his chest.

"You saw, then," he said, a statement, not a question, because while he had hoped that this wasn't the case, he had known all along that it was probably the memory leading the offensive charge on Ed's will to live.

"Yeah. I saw."

"That…saves me some explaining, then," he said dismally. "You heard –"

"'Kill me. I want to die.'"

"He was in…a considerable amount of pain –"

"Pleading with me from a few feet away, and I couldn't even work up the strength to tell him that I was _there_ for him!" Ed said in a sob. This seemed to be deteriorating faster than Roy could control. From the beginning, he had planned the conversation and how Edward would take it. He had mentally coordinated his information and gauged Edward's reaction to it, had taken the course that would cause him the least pain. Revealing, simultaneously, as little and as much information as he could. He had known the boy would hate him in the end, but maybe, this way, he wouldn't hate him quite so much…? But now things were spiraling out of control, and how silly Roy had been to underestimate power and depth of the emotions Ed had invested in this.

"It was hardly your fault that you lost consciousness Edward. You had no weakness of heart or mind, it was merely your body failing you, which was, due to the circumstances, unavoidable," Roy reassured gently, but Edward was shaking his head halfway through.

"No! My heart and my head were gone too, one look at him. I couldn't see at first, just hear, just hear and think I could _fix_ it, whatever pain he was in. But then there was the…the lightning, and I saw him, and it."

He inhaled deeply.

"It was what I had been afraid of all along."

Roy moved surreptitiously closer, creeping onto the opposite end of the berry red sofa as quietly as possible. Just when he thought that the squeaking of unsteady springs, sounding above Ed's increasingly ragged breathes, had given him away, had ruined his chances of being close, he saw the boy's metal hand inch toward him across the wide expanse of deep red cushion.

"He was just like my mother had been. Except this time his…his _soul_ was in it! There was a soul in it! And he could feel…he could feel _everything_.

"I killed him. In the worst way possible, I couldn't even find it in me to grant him some mercy and finish it _quick_, I just –"

Roy shook him by the shoulder, and knew that it was time for this to come forward.

_I could have saved him. You're a murderer._

He inhaled sharply, and his throat clogged with what he was about to say.

"I did. I killed him."

Ed stopped, mid-sentence, to look up at him with bright eyes.

"…You?"

He thought for a brief moment of how he had pictured himself explaining, composed, detached, and lofty, _'I set fire to the warehouse with him inside. He was in pain. It was necessary.'_

"He was begging, and you were dying, and I'm weak, I know I am. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said instead, petulant and sullen. And how pathetic they were. A man and a teenage boy sulking together, stubbornly clinging to their own guilt and wishing that a third boy would appear to make everything alright again.

"It…you…was it fast? Did it hurt him?" Edward said, and unexpectedly, some of the heaviness had gone from his tone.

"No. He didn't feel it. I set fire to the entire warehouse. He was at the center of the explosion."

"So he didn't just…burn to death on top of it?"

…Did Edward just want him to come out and _say_ that he had blown his precious little brother apart from the inside? That the heat had been intense enough to vaporize whatever brain he had left before the already strained nerves could even detect it?

Maybe he did. Maybe that was _exactly_ what he wanted.

Roy obliged, and Edward, wonder of all wonders, let his lips to curve up in the starts of a tearful, shaky smile. Roy's mind boggled, but he allowed his to do the same.

"He wasn't alone?"

"No. Not until the very end."

"You spoke to him?"

"I did my all to comfort him."

Edward looked down at the ground for a moment and Roy knew it was time to drop another bombshell. "He refused a chance to rebind his soul."

"I couldn't have," he replied promptly, pained again

"You…?"

"It was too unstable. His…his soul. I had known it when I started the transmutation. It would have fallen to pieces. It would have been rejected piece by piece. And that would have been more painful than anything. Watching him deteriorate. Al knew, too. He wouldn't have wanted that at all."

_Besides. Maybe. Maybe I'd rather not go back to that life._

Al's final words suddenly took on an ulterior meaning, and Roy felt his heart simply _lift_ with it. As if there had been a weight there instead. Relief flooded him like an antidote to a poison that had been slowly chipping away at his innards – piece by piece he felt them grow back, and piece by piece he felt like a whole man again.

The room felt brighter, suddenly, and Roy wondered vaguely why he hadn't just done this _sooner_. Edward's hand crept along the cushions toward him still, inching ever closer, but Roy had one more thing to say.

"He loves you, you know. I know he loves you. So much. It was one of the last things he said."

Edward gasped (as if something this mind-numbingly apparent was _surprising_?), and raised the hand that wasn't making its way across the cushions to his chest, as if his heart was paining him. "He…?"

"'I love him.' He said. 'Tell him that,'" he quoted. "At the time I deemed it unnecessary, I had thought you already knew, but –"

And then, suddenly, there were two metal arms hooked around his back, ten metal fingers crinkling his uniform, and two sodden eyes buried in his shoulder.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispered like a mantra, over and over, and Roy said his own silent thanks in return.

"I love him," Edward squeaked after a moment, sprawled ridiculously across the cushions to grasp at Roy as he had, as if he would have changed his mind about it in the time it took to move across the cushions; scarred, bare back peeking out from under the stretched pajama top; hair obscuring what little Roy could see of his blotchy face.

"Yeah," Roy returned. "I love him, too."

Roy patted his back, and that was as close as they would ever get to 'I love yous' of their own.

* * *

Panic was a white-hot poker in Roy's chest. It took a moment for it to settle in, which had been, in hindsight, far, far too long for him to be contemplating things under the time constraints he'd been dealt. Initially, he'd felt the same sort of resignation that he had when Al had argued for the end of his life in that foggy warehouse. His throat clenched and his bloody heart still lay on the ground behind him, but if he just accepted what had happened, it would be easier. If he just allowed the idea that _Ed was going to die_ into the undeniable truths of his life, he would be able to face it faster. He would be able to get over it. 

A full thirty seconds of absolute despair had passed before the idea of a rescue even passed through Roy's mind. He glanced up at the dull yellow light of the lamps on the bridge, and then followed their light as it filtered through the storm and onto the steely water beneath. He had a few minutes. He had time. Granted, with the temperature and current of the water taken into account, he probably had very, very little, but it wasn't as if Ed's heart had stopped beating before he even jumped.

_What the hell are you waiting for?_

The bridge itself was made of steel and cement. It rose in a grandiose sort of arch on top toward the middle, and on the bottom, it was planted firmly into the sloping, grassy ground on either side of the river with cement, as well as supported by several giant steel beams that extended from the underbelly of the bridge and disappeared into the murky water below. There was little doubt in Roy's mind that Edward had sunken straight to the bottom. With three steel limbs, he was too heavy not to. However, there was very little chance that he would fail to go anywhere at all with the wind whipping the water as it was and the current pushing so.

Edward had fallen nearer to the left side of the bridge, closer to the Fuhrer's mansion than the city's cultural district. Roy careened at full speed down the remainder of the sidewalk and then over the end of the guardrail and onto the grassy incline to the side. From there it was a steep slope to the river's edge, and Roy slid down it easily, snow and sleet making his descent a fast one and an utter lack of friction on his boots almost leading to his own untimely demise in the river. He managed to stop, though, in a patch of dirt on the river's edge, but failed to consider for a moment how he would get back up again (which was also, in hindsight, a stupid thing to do).

Then, with his ass in the snow and facing an angry river (_all hail the mighty Fuhrer of Amestris_), Roy wondered what to do next. He didn't know where Ed was. He didn't know how to get to him if he did. He couldn't very well raise the bottom of the river like Edward, couldn't very well dam it or block it or create a fucking hand to bring the boy to him. Edward was a master of all things alchemical, but Roy was a one-trick pony. He dealt with the atmosphere. Manipulating the air and the water in it and the elemental contents of it, he could do. But the earth was such a tricky thing to deal with. The air was so set in its composition, but metals and dirt and rocks changed in theirs so often. He wasn't a genius. He couldn't just assess these things from touching them, and so he'd never really tried. Roy liked air, and Roy liked fire. That was all there was to it.

But damnit, at times like this, the ability to bend the earth to his whim sounded _handy_.

Just then, Roy caught sight of something at the base of one of the supports.

_Red._

Just a flash of it. And oh fuck, maybe he was crazy and maybe he was just imagining things, but if he didn't work fast he'd have a dead body on his hands instead of a living, breathing boy.

He had a crazy thought.

The air wasn't totally useless. The air was all around him, ample and endless and waiting – and Roy sketched a circle in the snow so fast, it was a wonder it didn't rebound. When he was finished, he slammed his hand to it, and maybe the determination gave him power, because his reaction cut through the water like butter. Air broke the water like a knife, a great downward gust of it, and before the water filled in the gap again, he saw a sopping boy who had come to rest not on the bottom of the river, but who had been pushed onto the great bolted base of the steel support beam and who remained pinned there by the current.

Roy's adrenaline _pounded_, and that tiny niche behind his heart _burned_.

Again, he drew out a circle. It was a bit slower this time, because he was aware that both of their lives were dependent on this being perfect, on everything being perfect. A perfect circle like there was a compass in his head, crossing lines. He inverted his triangles to be water rather than fire – a wrong line there, he needed that line fifteen degrees to the left, he added more snow from outside the pile – and _there_. He took a moment to look at it before freezing, numb fingers set it off.

The heat it produced was minimal, which was good. Roy had filtered a lot of the unnecessary light and heat into drawing the moisture from the air. There was plenty to be had, but it was a difficult process, and he clenched his hand on the circle and concentrated.

_Come on, come on, come on – _

He urged it forward, mentally concentrating on freezing and solidifying the water he had accumulated, packing water molecules densely together, but he was out of practice and this was simply taking too long. He slammed his other hand onto the circle in frustration, and as if it sensed his sudden fit, the tip of his ice bridge broke and toppled into the water.

_No!_

Calm down. Lay off. Slow down.

He tried again, moving slower and keeping up the thickness of it. He was lucky that Edward had fallen so far to the side, he wouldn't have been able to make this kind of structure reach to the middle. It would have collapsed under its own weight toward the center.

When he was finished and the circle went dark, he looked at his dully gleaming ice bridge in pleasure and thought he knew what it felt like to pull an array out of his ass, now. He envied the Fullmetal Alchemist for doing it so often and for being able to reproduce the things after the fact – this one had taken so much out of him, and he knew for a fact that he wouldn't remember what he did to make the thing tomorrow.

Now that he had made it, though, did he trust his skills enough to use the thing?

_Now or never._

He took off his jacket, got onto his belly, felt rather silly (then felt rather silly for feeling rather silly when someone's life was at stake) and slid forward onto his bridge, making sure to distribute his weight evenly, going as fast as he could without going so fast that it cracked in two. He kept inching, and marveled at the fact that he couldn't feel it, not really. It was probably the adrenaline talking. No doubt his stomach would feel bitterly burned in the morning, but now, he felt insulated and warm and fluttering despite the moisture and the chill all around him.

He reached the end of the bridge. It connected to the support near where it entered the water and Roy looked frantically down into the dark waters, which were no less intimidating from the closer distance. Icy water lapped onto the bridge in great waves, and as one washed over Roy, he could almost hear his adrenaline shivering and shrinking away.

_You're on your own with this one, pal._

Roy sneered at his own body, knew what had to be done, and without further ado, plunged a hand into the freezing depths, searching for the slimy slide of the red coat beneath his fingers. It was no good though, they were too cold. He grasped around aimlessly for a moment and came up again empty-handed.

Well. Nothing else could be done.

Roy exhaled harshly in a thick cloud of white, then inhaled a sharp, deep prickle of cold air, and let his head go under. His torso and head descended into water so cold his lungs clenched, looking frantically, and he kept his feet hooked firmly around the other end of the bridge. Just when he thought that it was too dark, that the pathetic light of the street lamp issuing from above was too weak to catch that glimmer of red again, he saw it, in sharp relief against the dull gray of the beam, reached for it, and _pulled_ with everything he had left in him.

* * *

He let Edward fall asleep on the couch. He covered him with the quilt they kept slung over the back of it, tucked the edges around the curves of his exhaustion-slumped form, and thought tenderly that maybe this is what it means to be a father. This warm fluttering feeling in the back of his chest, just behind his heart, as this child who had no reason to trust in the world anymore trusted him enough to fall asleep in his presence, to let him tuck him in, to share the burdens that he faced. 

He wasn't Edward's father. He could never hope to fill that void. But _this_, just _this_, had to mean something, didn't it? Roy picked up the empty pizza box and put it on the table to take care of tomorrow. Then, before he could persuade himself to stop, he swooped down to lay a feather-light kiss on his forehead.

Then he stood back to look. Edward was such a _handsome_ boy, and it made Roy so very proud. In his sleep, his golden hair, made darker, almost brown, by the water from the shower, fell over his face and fluttered against his mouth when he took a breath (_and he was breathing!_). His eyelashes curved gently against his cheek. He looked so calm and quiet, his face free of the tension and the worry-lines that his life had put there. In front of him, two hands, two powerful hands that could bring the world down around his ears, lax and curled slightly, thumb inching toward his mouth in a shadow of a childhood habit that might have never been broken. The rest of his body was relaxed under the blanket – too thin, though, Roy thought and furrowed his brow, and knew something had to be done about that.

He had saved this boy twice. Maybe three times. He had known before that he loved him, known as he held him tight against his chest, as he pumped life into his failing lungs, as he'd hugged him over the charred remains of a futile hope, but it wasn't until now, in the calm of his own living room, that he allowed himself to fully realize just what all that meant to him.

He wasn't Edward's father. Edward wasn't Roy's son. But looking at him now he was able to fully realize why he had risked his life, what he had risked his life for, what exactly he would have lost if he had failed. And despite everything, Roy let himself _cry_. He sobbed like he hadn't since Alphonse had died, like he hadn't since Maes' funeral, like he hadn't since Ishbal. And it didn't make any fucking _sense_.

Everything was alright, now. Everything was fine, he thought, as he just crumpled into a chair opposite the couch and stifled sobs into his hand. Everything was far from perfect, but at least it was _fine_ for now.

Another choked out sob, his eyes never leaving Edward. Why was he crying now? What the hell reason could he have? Another few minutes passed of nothing but choked crying before it evolved into a strangled sort of giggle that crinkled his wet cheeks and finally gave him the power to take his eyes off the boy as he cupped his face with his hands to muffle it.

What the hell was _wrong _with him?

He rose stiffly from the chair and made his way to the door, flicking off the light as he left, and only when he reached the hallway was he able to make his laughs and his sobs die out.

And was that what it meant to be a father? Letting his emotions govern his life as he never had, feeling simultaneously so giddy and so crushed that he couldn't quite discern the two, looking at this boy and not being able to look away for all that was beautiful and perfect about him, blaming himself for anything that had ever happened, would ever happen?

Was it? Was this what it meant to be a father? Being someone he had never known, doing things he never would have done, feeling so full and so empty, knowing that his life as a bachelor was but a shadow of what it could have been now that he had fully claimed the love and responsibility for three boys?

He stared blankly into the long, dark hallway, and the laughter came again.

_Well. Yes. I suppose it is._

Fatherhood had snuck up to bite him in the ass, and now that he could see it, now that he could acknowledge it, now that he could give that burning place behind his heart a name, he didn't at all begrudge it for doing so. Roy felt successively giddy then exhausted from his epiphany.

It was getting on toward midnight, and Roy hadn't slept properly in ages, so he allowed himself one last peek into the room (_just to make sure_) before he was able to drag himself up the stairs, past the doorway where his other little boy slept soundly in a yellow-painted crib, stuffed bear clenched resolutely in his chubby little fist.

He slid softly between the sheets beside Riza and spread flush against her back, his hand reaching to settle over her stomach. She pretended to be sleeping, but he knew that she would not, could not have gone to sleep, too concerned for him, exhausted, downstairs, for their little boy in the next room over, and for Edward, sleeping soundly a floor below them. She broke the charade by raising her own hand to lay over his.

"Is he alright?" she said softly to the dark wall opposite them.

He breathed into her back, snuggled closer. "He's fine. He's not going anywhere. He's fine." He said it with confidence, and at the back of his chest, that paternal-something _burned_. She hesitated for a moment, humming softly, and he could feel the vibration of it through her back.

"What about you?" she asked finally. "Are you alright?" even more quietly than before.

Roy hoped that she could feel his smile against her neck when he breathed a gentle, "I am. I will be." He squeezed her hand and laid a kiss to the base of her neck.

She laughed next to him and settled down to sleep, and his son lay asleep a room over, and Edward was quiet and peaceful below them, and it was alright, then, so Roy let sleep take him, too.

That night he dreamt of Alphonse (but not the truncated limbs and the grasping hands and the blood on the floor), a human boy that he didn't know but recognized immediately. He didn't speak in his own words though, just Edward's mantra of thankyouthankyouthankyou, and the place that lay behind Roy's heart grew and spread and turned the whole thing a most spectacular shade of gold.

* * *

When Edward came out of the water, he wasn't breathing, and Roy's fingers were too numb to seek out a heartbeat. The thought was the most terrifying thing in the world. At least when Edward had come out of the warehouse, Roy could feel steady puffs of breath at his lips, feel a slow, steady pulse at his throat. Not knowing whether he was dragging a corpse or not was decidedly disconcerting. 

Roy set about the slow task of taking him back across his ice bridge, which was taking a beating from the relentless current of water. Turning around on such a narrow bridge with a limp boy under his arms was a monumental task in and of itself, nevermind that he was fatigued from his first trip, freezing from the water, and relying almost solely on one arm to propel himself.

When he was safe on the snowy, grassy slope, he was never quite sure how exactly he made it there. His trip back was a vague haze of cracking noises beneath him and his own desperate pleading too loud in his ears. The bridge threatened to collapse all the way back, complaining loudly at the added weight and the push on it from either side. More than once, the water almost took him overboard – and once, it did take Edward over, which wasn't a terrible setback, seeing as he still had a (_steel_) grip on Edward's coat, the boy couldn't have gotten much more saturated than he already was, and he was a hell of a lot lighter in the water.

Roy didn't have that much upper body strength – certainly not as much as Edward did. Years at a desk at made him hopelessly rusty. So, he was almost surprised when he found himself pulling Edward onto the rocky shore and away from the lethal tug of the river's flow. He panted hard from the struggle, but Edward was still limp and waterlogged in front of him, and there was an utter stillness to his chest that Roy didn't like at all. His shoes were gone, lost to the current and fuck if it wasn't ten times colder now that he was wet.

Roy's teeth chattered. The fact that Edward's didn't made him even colder.

He took up his coat from where he'd thrown it beside the river and forced limp arms into the sleeves, struggled with Edward, who was heavy with water now, until he was situated and warm inside. Then, hands sufficiently warmed, he dried Edward's throat with his own limp arm, and he jammed his fingers there to find the pulse.

Slow and unpredictable, faint and fading – but undeniably, utterly _there_.

Fuck, Roy had never imagined himself lucky before, anything but really, but for the second time in as many months, that life-giving thrum beneath his fingers made him believe in four leaf clovers and luck-giving rabbits' feet. But it was still fading fast. The small matter of making Ed breathe again was still at hand, and Roy really had no idea how to go about making that happen.

He'd seen it in the movie houses. Was he meant to just hit his chest and give him a kiss, then...? Roy slapped gently at Edward's face and wondered where exactly to hit on his chest and how exactly to pry open his seemingly frozen-closed mouth when Edward gave a weak, shaky little jerk beneath him.

"Breathe for me Edward," he urged suddenly, as if that would help. "You can't give up now." Inspired, Roy laid his palm flat over the hard, wet planes of Edward's chest and gave a tentative yet firm press.

"Breathe, goddammit!" He shouted, and the raging river couldn't hold a candle to the power in Roy's voice. "Come on, Fullmetal! Are you going to let a little water kill you?!"

Edward's mouth dropped open and his lips were absolutely white. Roy waited for breath to come, but his head just flopped to the side, and when Roy found Ed's pulse again, it was practically non-existent. He gave a few more harsh pushes to the boy's chest, too far gone to worry about propriety now, and then lowered his face to the boy's, close enough that he could count his eyelashes, that he could see minute spasms of facial muscles struggling for air, that he could feel whatever warmth was left in him radiating from his bloodless face, and then he covered his mouth with his own and exhaled. Edward's response was immediate. There was some life in him, there was some blood flowing, there was some piece of him that knew it was dying and that knew it needed _air_. Roy pressed and exhaled again.

"Please breathe for me Edward, please, just breathe and I swear to God –"

Water sputtered into his lips from Edward's mouth in great, gasping coughs, and then they most beautiful, most desperate _inhale_ sucked the air straight out of his own lungs and left Roy breathless himself. He backed up and spent the next few moments watching Edward's chest struggling to rise and fall as more water gradually dripped from his lips. Eventually, it fell into a smooth, easy rhythm. Unfortunately, as soon as the breathing evened, the shivering started, and Roy turned attention to the slippery slope before him. Another pressing matter, so close on the heels of the first. He'd barely even had time for relief.

He knew he should be panicked, knew his adrenaline should have been pumping as it had when Edward was in the river, because frostbite and hypothermia were very real dangers at that point. But fuck, he was just exhausted and absolutely freezing.

Edward shivered harder, panted white clouds. Roy sighed (_anything for the Elrics_) and made to gather the strength he had left to pull another miracle out of his ass before Edward froze to death, when there was suddenly more light on them from above – two twin beams of it – and another shout.

"Fuhrer Roy Mustang!"

_Armstrong. _Roy could have cried.

Moving seemed out of the question at that point, Roy's extremities having frozen over completely at the appearance of help and the adrenaline-sapping powers that had, but shouting he could do, and did do, at the top of his lungs.

"We're down here, Alex!" Roy was proud that he didn't stutter. A shining head, obscured by harsh snow, poked over the bridge railing and reflected the lamplight above them.

"However in the world did you get down there? Are you both alright?" He boomed above them.

"Long story. We'll be fine if I can get him warm and safe at home," Roy assured him loudly, goosebumps straining on his arms.

"I shall assist you post-haste!" He disappeared for a moment, and Roy swore he saw the bridge thundering with his footsteps, then appeared again at the top of the slope, slamming his iron-gloved hand into the ground. Roy felt the earth shifting and moving around him (_he thought wistfully, that if _only_ he'd had this five minutes ago…_) and put a steadying hand to Edward's chest as the ground beneath them lifted, climbing to level out with the top rail of the bridge.

Alex blundered around the corner to retrieve them, and Roy passed what little time he spent waiting looking down, down, down to the warped earth beneath them, and up, up, up the pillar to Ed's gently rising chest.

Roy allowed himself to breathe as well.

* * *

Roy woke to the sun on his face. Riza was still beneath his arm too, breathing the deep and heavy rhythm of exhausted sleep. He could feel her hand over his, just as it had been the night before. Overall, it was a pleasant way to start the day, and he thought as much as he yawned sleepily into the back of her neck. He had half a mind to simply let himself drift again after a languid stretch, but it was at that point that he realized the enormity of what waking to the sun on his face _implied_. 

Newborn babies and their eating habits were not often conducive to full nights of sleep. It was something that he and Riza had discovered (_the hard way_) during the first month of their ignorant endeavor into parenthood. Riza took care of most of it a majority of the time, but it was unfair for Roy to expect her to fit to the purely maternal mold she clearly hadn't been cast in. Riza was an extraordinary mother, but she was no military wife, and she would never be content to sit at home and dote on her children for the rest of her life. Thus it was Roy's duty as a good husband and as a good father to play his part sometimes, regardless of exactly how tired running the country left him. As such, Roy knew how early one had to wake to adhere to the strict feeding schedule that newborns set for themselves. In the winter, it was well before dawn when the morning alarm sounded. Sleeping to daylight, sleeping the whole night through was virtually unheard of, even though one of their servants had been known to take care of the earliest feeds once in a while.

Roy slid out of bed as quietly as he had slipped in the night before a mere – he glanced at the clock – God, nine _hours _ago? How long had it been since he'd gotten that much sleep?

Two months, he thought as he threw on his dressing gown. It had been two months, because the last decent night had been the one before Ed's failed transmutation (and damn but he had slept well that night, just enough vodka to get himself buzzed and no baby in the room adjacent to wake him).

From there it was an easy task to tiptoe out of the room without waking Riza. She had been just as exhausted as him, after all. He hoped against all hope that one of the butlers had heated some of Riza's milk, that Alphonse would be well fed and in good humor when he got there.

The door was ajar when he reached it, and Roy cautiously looked through the gap and into the nursery, almost as if his very eyes would set his baby into frantic tears and –

His mouth fell open, his heart burst back into its rightful place, and if anyone had told him five years ago that _this_ would be the most important thing in his life, he never would have believed them.

"Hey, kid," Edward said softly, bending over the crib. Roy's newly restored heart _clenched_.

And then Edward, long hair loose from sleep and still wearing over-large pajamas, was leaning down to pick up his baby boy, his pride and joy, his Alphonse, and Roy remembered somewhat nervously the state those hands had left his kitchen in the night before. Roy bit his lip and held his tongue, resisting his paternal impulse, because really, he couldn't be expected to interrupt _this_ unless the worst happened.

But Edward was heart-wrenchingly gentle with his hands as he brought a groggy looking little boy out of the crib and nestled him into the crook of his elbow. If Alphonse minded the cold, hard metal he didn't show it, he merely looked on with those intelligent brown eyes, and Edward looked down with his stunning gold eyes, and Roy put a hand to his lips to keep from letting out the impulsive, "support his _head_, for God's sake."

"Hey, kid," Edward said again, but this time his throat seemed clogged.

A silent moment passed, and he vaguely realized the Riza had appeared with a soft gasp behind him, bringing her hands around his waist, but his eyes were on his boys, his mind was on how very tenderly Edward handled the child in his arms (_ever a big brother_) and how much Alphonse seemed to be enjoying it. Edward lifted one arm like a living mechanical mobile and Alphonse laughed and reached tiny little fists at him, blinking against the morning sun.

"Y'know…" Edward said, and Roy didn't dare to breathe. "Your eyes…your eyes remind me of someone really special to me." Roy gasped a laugh and blinked back tears. Alphonse caught one of Edward's fingers, giggled a bubble of a laugh, and quirked his expressive little head to the side.

Roy had murmured, "Get me the camera," to Riza before he'd realized he'd even thought it, but Riza released him after a breathy little laugh into his shoulder, sweet and melodic to his ears, to comply.

She returned quickly with a loaded camera in hand, padding silently down the hall, but Edward was too involved in his own little world to hear, to involved in the world that now revolved around the little bundle in his arms – who he seemed to think, suddenly, needed to know about his namesake.

"My little brother. You never knew him. He – died before you were born, but he was…he was…"

Edward didn't even hear the _click _of the camera from the hallway when Roy took the first shot, nor did he hear the second _click_ of the shutter when Roy took a second photograph, a purely golden Edward framed in the sunlight of the nursery's window – just for good measure.

He didn't hear the laughter that followed either, from somewhere far off, even though this time, Roy swore he could distinguish two distinctly different sets.

* * *

Thanks for sticking with me, folks! I know this arc took forever, but I hope you're happy with it. 

Special thanks go out to my lovely **Feyrae** again, as well as to **TangerineVampire** and **Child of a Pineapple **(lulz...fruits XD)who read through this chapter for me and are loved forever for enduring my pestering. I dearly appreciated their input. Thanks as well for all my readers who offered to beta -- I'm sorry I didn't get back to you guys! I promise I'll take advantage of your offers in the future. X3 (You can count on it! I'm never one to pass up the opportunity to get second opinions.)

Also, special thanks to **Jaya Mitai **who left me such really, really, really in depth suggestions, which I am going to take for sure! Your input was such help in creating this chapter as well, and I'm going to go back and edit that chapter. I love you for taking the time to write such an in depth review, darling. X3 It really helped. And thanks to **Sonnengott **who took the time to leave lovely in depth reviews from the very start of Shattered. I enjoyed those immensely.

BUT NOT JUST THOSE TWO. THANKS TO ALL MY REVIEWERS! T.T I COULDN'T HAVE FINISHED THIS ARC WITHOUT YOU, AND I LOVE YOU ALL TO PIECES.♥

Alright, and another reminder for reader request! Last chance!

**Give me some characters and a prompt (no yaoi/yuri/shoujo-ai/shounen-ai) and be specific! I'll write a 500-1000 word (give or take a few) drabble-thing for you.**

Some of you said you weren't requesting because of my warning in the last chapter, but please, don't be intimidated by that -- if you want something, just ask! I've only gotten a few requests so far! I am really eager to start these; this was a really fun project last time, and I want even more to write this time around. **So give me your requests!**

Reviews for this section especially would be _so much_ love. ♥


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